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WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


LONDON: 

I'ltlNTKI)   BV    WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  STAMFORD  STHKET 
AND  CHARING  CROSS. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD : 


A  SELECTION  OF  DESCRIPTIVE  POETRY. 


FROM  VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS  ON  STEEL  AND  WOOD. 

AFTER  ROSA  BONHEUR,  JULIETTE  BONHEUR,  CHARLES  JACQUE,  VEYRASSAT, 
YAN  DARGENT,  AND  OTHER  ARTISTS. 


NEW  YOEK : 

D.  APPLETON  AND  CO.,  448  &  445,  BROADWAY. 
1868. 


AA 


.  \l 


CONTENTS. 


C.  F.  ALEXANDER. 

WITHERED  LEAVES  .  .  .      106 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

THE  WOODLAND     .  .  .12 

W.  BARNES. 

MILKEN  TIME  .  ^       .  .38 

HAY  MIAKEN          .  .  .  .68 

W.  L.  BOWLES. 

THE  CLIFF  .  .      115 

R.  BROWNING. 

THE  MOON-RAINBOW  .      120 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 

THE  CLOSE  OF  AUTUMN   .  .      114 

R.  BURNS. 

THE  FIELD  MOUSE  .  ...      117 

T.  CAMPBELL. 

THE  EVENING  STAR  .  .  35 

FIELD  FLOWERS     .  .        59 

T.  CAREW. 

SPRING         ...  8 

J.  CLARE. 

FEBRUARY    ....  2 

SUMMER  MOODS      ...  34 


A.  H.  CLOUGH.  76 

A  MOUNTAIN  STREAM 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE.  ^ 

THE  NIGHTINGALE 
THE  SWANS. 
THE  RAVEN 

W.  COLLINS. 

_  .  00 

EVENING 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 

4o 
THE  NIGHTS 

W.  COWPER. 

47 
THE  JACKDAW 

»i 

THE  GLOWWORM     . 

fiQ 
A  GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT      . 

195 
THE  BIRDS  IN  WINTER    . 

G.  CRABBE. 

THE  SHORE. 

ISA  CRAIG. 

_.  llo 

SNOW 

W.  DRUMMOND. 

THE  SONG-BIRD 

F.  W.  FABER. 

THE  HEDGE-ROWS  . 

112 
THE  CHURCH  DIAL 

J.  FLETCHER. 

oo 
FLOWERS  AND  BIRDS 

EVENING 


REGINALD  HEBER. 
THE  RISING  01 

FELICIA  HEMANS. 
THE  Sirs 

R.  HERRICK. 


-1  AO 

THE  RISING  OF  THE  SUN 


OQ 

THE  SKY-LARK 


1  fi 
BLOSSOMS  . 

18 
THE  DAFFODILS 


CONTENTS. 


O.  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

SPRING  IN  AMERICA         .......        11 

THE  CHURCHYARD.  .....  .      109 

HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY. 

SPRING          ......  7 

MARY  E.  HEWITT. 

THE  OWL     .  .  .52 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

To  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET        .  .        54 

THE  SWEETBRIAR  ........        64 

J.  KEATS. 

A  SUMMER  DAY      .....  29 

THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET  .  .        55 

To  AUTUMN      .....  .92 

C.  ZINGSLEY. 

THE  STARLINGS      ......  9 

THE  WILD  FOWL'S  VOICE  .      125 

H.  ZIRZE  WHITE. 

A  SUMMER  MORN  .  .  .  .33 

A  SUMMER  EVE      .  ....  .43 

W.  S.  LANDOR. 

EVENING       ......."  .45 

THE  LAST  LEAF     .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .      105 

J.  LOGAN. 

THE  CUCKOO  ........        14 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS    .....  .32 

AUTUMN        .........        94 

WOODS  IN  WINTER  .  .....      128 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

THE  DANDELION    .....  62 

THE  FOUNTAIN       .           .                       ...  .66 

A  SUMMER  STORM  ....  .78 

C.  MACKAY. 

ANGLING  70 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


OWEN  MEREDITH. 
A  SEA-SIDE  SONG-  . 
FADING  FLOWEKS  . 
THE  SEA-GULLS 

PAGE 

90 
.      104 
.      116 

J.  MILTON. 
MAY  MORNING 

18 

A.  POPE. 
COUNTRY  SPORTS    . 

99 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 
THE  WIND  . 

77 

S.  ROGERS. 
THE  COTTAGE 

67 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 
SPRING 
SUMMER 
TWILIGHT  CALM 

9 
28 
41 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
THE  GREENWOOD   . 
THE  FOREST 

91 

96 

W.  SHAKSPERE. 
BEES  . 

56 

P.  B.  SHELLEY. 
To  A  SKYLARK 
THE  CLOUD. 

24 

82 

MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 

THE  THRUSH  48 

CAROLINE  SOUTHEY. 

THE  GARDEN  •        *& 

R.  SOUTHEY. 

THE  BEE      .  .  55 

E.  SPENSER. 

THE  SEASONS  •  •      129 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

J.  THOMSON. 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  WINTER     ......  1 

SHOOTING     .........  100 

HUNTING      .            .            .                       .            .            .            .            .  101 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  BIRDS            .....  108 

FROST           ....                       .  126 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  "  THREE  WAKINGS." 

A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY       .......       84 

ARCHBISHOP  TRENCH. 

SUNSET. — From  the  German  of  Goethe        .  .  .  .  .40 

THE  CHURCHYARD.  .......      110 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 

LIME  BLOSSOMS      ........        27 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON        ...  ...        51 

J.  WILSON. 

THE  DESOLATE  VILLAGE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .72 

SOLITUDE      .           .           .  .  .  .  .  .  .74 

MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  SEA  .  .  .  .  .  .  .86 

W.  WORDSWORTH. 

SPRING         .........  7 

THE  CUCKOO           ......  13 

THE  DAFFODILS      ....  17 

THE  DAISY  ...                                   ....  60 

NUTTING      .........  95 

THE  DOG'S  GRAVE.           .                       .           .  107 

THE  FOUR  DOGS    ...                       ....  122 

WATER-FOWL                                                                                         .  123 


LIST  OF  THE  LAKGEE  ILLUSTKATIONS. 


PAGE 

CATTLE  CROSSING  A  FOKD        .        .        .  YAN  DABGENT — Frontispiece. 

ROEBUCKS ROSA  BONHEUB        ...  12 

A  QUAIL  AND  HEE  BEOOD      .        .        .  E.  TEAVIES        ....  34 

A  YOUNG  Fox JULIETTE  BONHEUE         .        .  40 

A  FALLEN  FOE DAEJOU 44 

SNIPE E.  TBAVIE'S        ....  70 

WOODCOCKS  AND  PLOVEES       .        .        .  C.  JACQUE 86 

A  MOENING  WALK O.  DE  KEOKOW         ...  92 

SHOOTING  IN  THE  FENS  J.  VEYEASSAT    ....  98 

WOUNDED  PAETEIDGE  E.  TEAVIES        .  •     .        .        .  100 

RABBIT ROSA  BONHEUR        .        .        .  114 

WILD  DUCK  E.  TEAVIES  124 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


WINTER'S  DEPARTURE. 

BE  where  surly  Winter  passes  off, 
Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts ; 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill, 
The  shatter'd  forest  and  the  ravaged  vale  ; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch, 
Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost, 
The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 


As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconnrm'd, 
And  winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze; 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless ;    so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  ungulft 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh ;   or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath, 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listening  waste. 

At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  sun, 
And  the  bright  Bull  receives  him.     Then  no  more 
The  expansive  atmosphere  is  cramp'd  with  cold ; 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul, 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime;  and  spreads  them  thin, 
Fleecy  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven. 

J.  Thomson. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


FEBRUARY. 

THE  snow  has  left  the  cottage  top ; 

The  thatch-moss  grows  in  brighter  green ; 
And  eaves  in  quick  succession  drop, 

Where  grinning  icicles  have  been; 
Pit-patting  with  a  pleasant  noise 

In  tubs  set  by  the  cottage  door; 
While  ducks  and  geese,  with  happy  joys, 

Plunge  in  the  yard-pond  brimming  o'er. 


The  sun  peeps  through  the  window-pane ; 

Which  children  mark  with  laughing  eye, 
And  in  the  wet  street  steal  again, 

To  tell  each  other  Spring  is  nigh: 
Then,  as  young  hope  the  past  recalls, 

In  playing  groups  they  often  draw, 
To  build  beside  the  sunny  walls 

Their  spring-time  huts  of  sticks  or  straw. 

And  oft  in  pleasure's  dreams  they  hie 
Bound  homesteads  by  the  village  side, 

Scratching  the  hedgerow  mosses  by, 
Where  painted  pooty  shells  abide ; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Mistaking  oft  the  ivy  spray 

For  leaves  that  come  with  budding  Spring, 
And  wondering,  in  their  search  for  play, 

Why  birds  delay  to  build  and  sing. 

The  milkmaid  singing  leaves  her  bed, 

As  happy  as  happy  thoughts  can  be, 
While  magpies  chatter  o'er  her  head 

As  jocund  in  the  change  as  she  : 
Her  cows  around  the  closes  stray, 

Nor  lingering  wait  the  foddering-boy ; 
Tossing  the  mole-hills  in  their  play, 

And  staring  round  with  frolic  joy. 

The  shepherd  now  is  often  seen 

Near  warm  banks  o'er  his  hook  to  bend ; 
Or  o'er  a  gate  or  stile  to  lean, 

Chattering  to  a  passing  friend : 
Ploughmen  go  whistling  to  their  toils, 

And  yoke  again  the  rested  plough ; 
And,  mingling  o'er  the  mellow  soils, 

Boys  shout,  and  whips  are  noising  now. 

The  barking  dogs  by  lane  and  wood, 

Drive  sheep  a-field  from  foddering  ground ; 
And  Echo,  in  her  summer  mood, 

Briskly  mocks  the  cheering  sound. 
The  flocks,  as  from  a  prison  broke, 

Shake  their  wet  fleeces  in  the  sun, 
While,  following  fast,  a  misty  smoke 

Reeks  from  the  moist  grass  as  they  run. 

No  more  behind  his  master's  heels 
The  dog  creeps  on  his  winter-pace ; 

But  cocks  his  tail,  and  o'er  the  fields 
Runs  many  a  wild  and  random  chase ; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Following,  in  spite  of  chiding  calls, 
The  startled  cat  with  harmless  glee, 

Scaring  her  up  the  weed-green  walls, 
Or  mossy  mottled  apple-tree. 


As  crows  from  morning  perches  fly, 

He  barks  and  follows  them  in  vain ; 
E'en  larks  will  catch  his  nimble  eye, 

And  off  he  starts  and  barks  again, 
With  breathless  haste  and  blinded  guess, 

Oft  following  where  the  hare  hath  gone  ; 
Forgetting,  in  his  joy's  excess, 

His  frolic  puppy-days  are  done! 

The  hedgehog,  from  his  hollow  root, 

Sees  the  wood-moss  clear  of  snow, 
And  hunts  the  hedge  for  fallen  fruit — 

Crab,  hip,  and  winter-bitten  sloe ; 
But  often  check'd  by  sudden  fears, 

As  shepherd-dog  his  haunt  espies, 
He  rolls  up  in  a  ball  of  spears, 

And  all  his  barking  rage  defies. 

The  gladden'd  swine  bolt  from  the  sty, 
And  round  the  yard  in  freedom  run, 

Or  stretching  in  their  slumbers  lie 
Beside  the  cottage  in  the  sun. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  young  horse  whinneys  to  his  mate, 
And,  sickening  from  the  thresher's  door, 

Rubs  at  the  straw-yard's  banded  gate, 
Longing  for  freedom  on  the  moor. 

The  small  birds  think  their  wants  are  o'er, 

To  see  the  snow-hills  fret  again, 
And,  from  the  barn's  chaff-litter'd  door, 

Betake  them  to  the  greening  plain. 
The  woodman's  robin  startles  coy, 

Nor  longer  to  his  elbow  comes, 
To  peck,  with  hunger's  eager  joy, 

'Mong  mossy  stulps  the  litter'd  crumbs. 

'Neath  hedge  and  walls  that  screen  the  wind, 

The  gnats  for  play  will  flock  together; 
And  e'en  poor  flies  some  hope  will  find 

To  venture  in  the  mocking  weather; 
From  out  their  hiding-holes  again, 

With  feeble  pace,  they  often  creep 
Along  the  sim-warm'd  window-pane, 

Like  dreaming  things  that  walk  in  sleep. 

The  mavis  thrush  with  wild  delight, 

Upon  the  orchard's  dripping  tree, 
Mutters,  to  see  the  day  so  bright, 

Fragments  of  young  hope's  poesy : 
And  oft  dame  stops  her  buzzing  wheel 

To  hear  the  robin's  note  once  more, 
Who  tootles  while  he  pecks  his  meal 

From  sweet-briar  hips  beside  the  door. 

The  sunbeams  on  the  hedges  lie, 

The  south  wind  murmurs  summer-soft; 

The  maids  hang  out  white  cloths  to  dry 
Around  the  elder-skirted  croft : 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


A  calm  of  pleasure  listens  round, 

And  almost  whispers  Winter  by; 
While  fancy  dreams  of  summer's  sound, 

And  quiet  rapture  fills  the  eye. 

Thus  nature  of  the  spring  will  dream 

While  south  winds  thaw ;    but  soon  again 
Frost  breathes  upon  the  stiffening  stream, 

And  numbs  it  into  ice:   the  plain 
Soon  wears  its  mourning  garb  of  white; 

And  icicles,  that  fret  at  noon, 
Will  eke  their  icy  tails  at  night 

Beneath  the  chilly  stars  and  moon. 

Nature  soon  sickens  of  her  joys, 

And  all  is  sad  and  dumb  again, 
Save  merry  shouts  of  sliding  boys 

About  the  frozen  furrow'd  plain. 
The  foddering-boy  forgets  his  song, 

And  silent  goes  with  folded  arms ; 
And  croodling  shepherds  bend  along, 

Crouching  to  the  whizzing  storms. 

/.  Clare. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


SPRING. 

THE  soote  *  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 
^Yith  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale, 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  makej  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs. 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  small ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings;t 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flower's  bale.  § 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey. 


SPRING. 


HE  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 
J| 'V*   The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter, 

The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 
The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 
The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising; 

There  are  forty  feeding  like  one ! 


Sweet. 


t  Mate. 


J  Mingles. 


§  Destruction, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Like  an  army  defeated 
The  snow  hath  retreated, 
And  now  doth  fare  ill 
On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  ploughboy  is  whooping — anon — anon : 
There's  joy  in  the  mountains 
There's  life  in  the  fountains  ; 
Small  clouds  are  sailing, 
Blue  sky  prevailing; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone ! 

W.  Wordsivorth. 


SPRING. 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 
Her  snow-white  robes,  and  now  no  more  the  frost 
Candies  the  grass,  or  casts  an  icy  cream 
Upon  the  silver  lake,  or  crystal  stream  : 
But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumbed  earth 
And  makes  it  tender,  gives  a  sacred  birth 
To  the  dead  swallow,  wakes  in  hollow  tree 


The  drowsy  cuckoo  and  the  humble  bee. 
Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring 
In  triumph  to  the  world,  the  youthful  spring: 
The  valleys,  hills,  and  woods,  in  rich  array, 
Welcome  the  coming  of  the  long'd-for  May. 

T.  Carew. 


WOODLAND  AND   WILD. 


THE  STARLINGS. 

EARLY  in  spring  time,  on  raw  and  windy  mornings, 

Beneath  the  freezing  house-eaves  I  heard  the  starlings  sing — 

'  Ah  dreary  March  month,  is  this  then  a  time  for  building  wearily  ? 

Sad,  sad,  to  think  that  the  year  has  but  begun.' 

Late  in  the  autumn,  on  still  and  cloudless  evenings, 

Among  the  golden  reed-beds  I  heard  the  starlings  sing — 

'Ah  that   sweet  March  month,  when  we   and  our   mates   were   courting 

merrily : 
Sad,  sad,  to  think  that  the  year  is  all  but  done.' 

C.  Kingsley. 


SPRING. 

FROST-LOCKED  all  the  winter, 
Seeds,  and  roots,  and  stones  of  fruits, 
What  shall  make  their  sap  ascend 
That  they  may  put  forth  shoots? 
Tips  of  tender  green, 
Leaf,  or  blade,  or  sheath ; 
Telling  of  the  hidden  life 
That  breaks  forth  underneath, 
Life  nursed  in  its  grave  by  Death. 

Blows  the  thaw-wind  pleasantly, 

Drips  the  soaking  rain, 

By  fits  looks  down  the  waking  sun : 

Young  grass  springs  on  the  plain ; 

Young  leaves  clothe  early  hedgerow  trees; 

Seeds,  and  roots,  and  stones  of  fruits, 

Swollen  with  sap  put  forth  their  shoots; 

Curled-headed  ferns  sprout  in  the  lane ; 

Birds  sing  and  pair  again. 


10 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


There  is  no  time  like  Spring, 

When  life's  alive  in  everything, 

Before  new  nestlings  sing, 

Before  cleft  swallows  speed  their  journey  back 

Along  the  trackless  track — 

God  guides  their  wing; 

He  spreads  their  table  that  they  nothing  lack,- 

Before  the  daisy  grows  a  common  flower, 

Before  the  sun  has  power 

To  scorch  the  world  up  in  his  noontide  hour. 


£7* 


There  is  no  time  like  Spring — 

Like  Spring  that  passes  by ; 

There  is  no  life  like  Spring-life  born  to  die, — 

Piercing  the  sod, 

Clothing  the  uncouth  clod, 

Hatched  in  the  nest, 

Fledged  on  the  windy  bough, 

Strong  on  the  wing : 

There  is  no  time  like  Spring  that  passes  by, 

Now  newly  born,  and  now 

Hastening  to  die. 


Christina  Rossetti. 


WOODLAND  AND   WILD. 


SPRING  IN  AMERICA. 

INTER  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 
Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms; 
Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 
The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green ; 
On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 
Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves, 
Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 
White,  azure,  golden, — drift,  or  sky,  or  sun;  — 
The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 
The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  winter's  crest ; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 

Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 

Naked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 

Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 

Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky; 

On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 

The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 

The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave, 

Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave, 

Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny  pane, 

Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain; 

From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls, 

In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent  crawls; 

The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 

Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened  leap; 

On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 

The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 

Or  toiling,  aimless,  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 

Trail  through  the  grass  their  tesselated  shields. 

0.  Wendell  Holmes. 


12  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  WOODLAND. 

THEY  carae  to  where  the  brushwood  ceased,  and  day 

Peer'd  'twixt  the  stems;  and  the  ground  broke  away 

In  a  sloped  sward  down  to  a  brawling  brook, 

And  up  as  high  as  where  they  stood  to  look 

On  the  brook's  further  side  was  clear ;  but  there 

The  underwood  and  trees  began  again. 

This  open  glen  was  studded  thick  with  thorns 

Then  white  with  blossom  ;  and  you  saw  the  horns, 

Through  the  green  fern,  of  the  shy  fallow-deer, 

Which  come  at  noon  down  to  the  water  here. 

You  saw  the  bright-eyed  squirrels  dart  along 

Under  the  thorns  on  the  green  sward ;    and  strong 

The  blackbird  whistled  from  the  dingles  near, 

And  the  light  chipping  of  the  woodpecker 

Rang  lonelily  and  sharp;  the  sky  was  fair, 

And  a  fresh  breath  of  spring  stirred  everywhere. 

Merlin  and  Vivian  stopp'd  on  the  slope's  brow 

To  gaze  on  the  green  sea  of  leaf  and  bough 

Which  glittering  lay  all  round  them,  lone  and  mild. 

As  if  to  itself  the  quiet  forest  smiled. 

Upon  the  brow-top  grew  a  thorn ;  and  here 

The  grass  was  dry  and  moss'd,  and  you  saw  clear. 

Across  the  hollow :  white  anemones 

Starr 'd  the  cool  turf,  and  clumps  of  primroses 

Ran  out  from  the  dark  underwood  behind. 

No  fairer  resting-place  a  man  could  find. 


'-  - 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


13 


THE  CUCKOO. 


BLITHE  new-comer!    I  have  heard, 
I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 
O  Cuckoo  !    shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 

Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 

Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  schoolboy  days 

I  listened  to;    that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love ; 
Still  longer!  for,  never  seen. 

And  can  I  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 


H  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


0  blessed  bird!    the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place; 

That  is  fit  home  for  thee. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


THE  CUCKOO. 

HAIL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear ; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year? 

Delightful  visitant !    with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

o 

The  school-boy  wandering  through  the  wood, 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  spring  to  hail. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


15 


Sweet  bird !   thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year! 

O  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  spring. 


Log/an. 


THE  SONG-BIRD. 

WEET  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours, 
Or  winters  past  or  coming  void  of  care, 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 
Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers ; 
To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  He  did  not  spare; 
A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 
What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs, 
Attired  in  sweetness,  sweetly  is  not  driven 
Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites  and  wrongs, 
And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven? 

Sweet,  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 
To  airs  of  spheres,  yea,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

W.  Drummond. 


16 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


BLOSSOMS. 

FAIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past, 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 


What,  were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Twas  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


R.  Herrick. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


17 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  ou  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
.^  A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 


Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky-way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced  ;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company : 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 


For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


W.   Wordsivorth. 


18  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

FAIR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  baste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 

And,  having  pray'd  together,  we  » 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

R.  Herrick. 


MAY  MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth  and  youth,  and  warm  desire  ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 

Hill  arid  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  st>ng, 

And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

/.  Milton. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  19 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 

Distinguishes  the  West — no  long  thin  slip 

Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 

Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge ! 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 

But  hear  no  murmuring :    it  flows  silently, 

O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 

A  balmy  night !   and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 

Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 

That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 

A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 

And  hark!    the  nightingale  begins  its  song, 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  "  bird  ! 

A  melancholy  bird  !     Oh  !   idle  thought ! 

In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering  man  whose  heart  was  pierced 

With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 

Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so,  poor  wretch !   filled  all  things  with  himself, 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 

Of  his  own  sorrow)  he,  and  such  as  he, 

First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 

And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 

When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his  limbs 

Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  sun  or  moonlight,  to  the  influxes 

Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 

Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 

And  of  his  fame  forgetful!     So  his  fame 

Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 

A  venerable  thing!   and  so  his  song 

Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 

Beloved  like  Nature  !     But  'twill  not  be  so ; 

And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 


20  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still, 
Full  of  meek  sympathy,  must  heave  their  sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  friend,  and  thou,  our  sister!    we  have  learnt 
A  different  lore:    we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  fall  of  love 
And  joyance!     'Tis  the  merry  nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music ! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not;   and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood, 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass,  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  nightingales;   and  far  and  near, 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagirigs, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug-jug, 
And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 
Forget  it  was  not  day !     On  moon-lit  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 
Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and  full, 
Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  maid, 
Wlio  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  21 

Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 

(Even  like  a  lady  vowed  and  dedicate 

To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 

Glides  through  the  pathways ;    she  knows  all  their  notes, 

That  gentle  maid!   and  oft  a  moment's  space, 

What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 

Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence ;  till  the  moon 

Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 

With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 

Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 

As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 

A  hundred  airy  harps !     And  she  hath  watched 

Many  a  nightingale  perched  giddily 

On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 

And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 

Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 


Farewell,  0  warbler!  till  to-morrow  eve, 

And  you,  my  friends,  farewell,  a  short  farewell! 

We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 

And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again ! 

Full  fain  it  would  delay  me !     My  dear  babe, 

Wrho,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 

Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 

How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 

His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 

And  bid  us  listen !     And  I  deem  it  wise 

To  make  him  Nature's  play-mate.    He  knows  well 

The  evening  star;   and  once,  when  he  awoke 

In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 

Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream), 

I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 

And  he  beheld  the  moon,  and,  hushed  at  once, 

Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 

While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropped  tears, 

Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam  !     Well ! 

It  is  a  father's  tale.     But  if  that  Heaven 


22 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy.     Once  more,  farewell, 
Sweet  nightingale !     Once  more,  my  friends,  farewell ! 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


FLOWEES  AND  BIRDS. 

"DOSES,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone, 
Not  royal  in  their  smells  alone, 

But  in  their  hue ; 
Maiden  pinks,  of  odour  faint, 
Daisies  smell-less,  yet  most  quaint, 

And  sweet  thyme  true  ; 

Primrose,  first-born  child  of  Ver, 
Merry  spring-time's  harbinger, 
With  her  bells  dim : 

Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing, 

Marigolds  on  death-beds  blowing, 
Lark-heels  trim ; 

All,  dear  Nature's  children  sweet, 
Lie  'fore  bride  and  bridegroom's  feet, 

Blessing  their  sense! 
Not  an  angel  of  the  air, 
Bird  melodious,  or  bird  fair, 

Be  absent  hence ! 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,  nor 
The  boding  raven,  nor  chough  hoar, 

Nor  chattering  pie, 

May  on  our  bride-house  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring, 

But  from  it  fly  ! 

/.  Fletcher. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


23 


THE  SKY-LARK. 

H !  Sky-lark,  for  thy  wing ! 

Thou  bird  of  joy  and  light, 
That  I  might  soar  and  sing 

At  heaven's  empyreal  height ! 
With  the  heathery  hills  beneath  me, 

Whence  the  streams  in  glory  spring, 
And  the  pearly  clouds  to  wreath  me, 
Oh  Sky-lark  !  on  thy  wing  ! 


Free,  free  from  earth-born  fear, 

I  would  range  the  blessed  skies, 
Through  the  blue  divinely  clear, 

Where  the  low  mists  cannot  rise! 
And  a  thousand  joyous  measures 

From  my  chainless  heart  should  spring, 
Like  the  bright  rain's  vernal  treasures, 

As  I  wandered  on  thy  wing. 


But  oh!  the  silver  chords, 

That  around  the  heart  are  spun, 
From  gentle  tones  and  words, 

And  kind  eyes  that  make  our  sun! 
To  some  low  sweet  nest  returning, 

How  soon  my  love  would  bring, 
There,  there  the  dews  of  morning, 

Oh,  Sky-lark!  on  thy  wing! 


Felicia  Hemans. 


24  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight.' 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  25 


What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glowworm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  ae'real  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Kain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


26  WOODLAND  AND   WILD. 


Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?    what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

*    Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
i  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


27 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know, 

Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I 


am  listening  now. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


LIME  BLOSSOMS. 


THE  flower  of  the  tree  is  the  flower  for  mo, 
That  life  out  of  life,  high-hanging  and  free, 
By  the  finger  of  God  and  the  south  wind's  fan 
Drawn  from  the  broad  bough,  as  Eve  from  Man ! 
From  the  rank  red  earth  it  never  up-grew ; — 
It  was  woo'd  from  the  bark  in  the  breezy  blue. 

Hail,  blossoms  green  'mid  the  limes  unseen, 
That  charm  the  bees  to  your  honey'd  screen, 

As  like  to  the  green  trees  that  gave  you  birth 

As  noble  manners  to  inward  worth! 

We  see  you  not ;  but,  we  scarce  know  why, 

We  are  glad  when  the  air  ye  have  breathed  goes  by. 


J 


O  flowers  of  the  lime!  'twas  a  merry  time 
When  under  you  first  we  read  old  rhyme, 
And  heard  the  wind  roam  over  pale  and  park, 
(We  "not  I)  'mid  the  lime-grove  dark ! 
Summer  is  heavy  and  sad.     Ye  bring 
With  your  tardy  blossoms  a  second  spring. 

Aubrey  de  Vere. 


28 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


SUMMER. 

INTER  is  cold-hearted, 
Spring  is  yea  and  nay, 

Autumn  is  a  weathercock 
Blown  every  way: 

Summer  days  for  me 

When  every  leaf  is  on  its  tree; 


When  Robin's  not  a  beggar, 

And  Jenny  Wren's  a  bride, 
And  larks  hang  singing,  singing,  singing, 

Over  the  wheat-fields  wide, 

And  anchored  lilies  ride, 
And  the  pendulum  spider 

Swings  from  side  to  side, 

And  blue-black  beetles  transact  business, 

And  gnats  fly  in  a  host, 
And  furry  caterpillars  hasten 

That  no  time  be  lost, 
And  moths  grow  fat  and  thrive, 
And  ladybirds  arrive. 

Before  green  apples  blush, 

Before  green  nuts  embrown,  * 
Why,  one  day  in  the  country 

Is  worth  a  month  in  town ; 

Is  worth  a  day  and  a  year 
Of  the  dusty,  musty,  lag-last  fashion 

That  days  drone  elsewhere. 

Christina  EossettL 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  29 


A  SUMMER  DAY. 

I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill, 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 

Their  scanty-leaved,  and  finely-tapering  stems, 

Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new-shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook;   sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves; 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 

To  peer  about  upon  variety; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim ; 

To  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending: 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  play'd  upon  my  heels :    I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them  ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them ! 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots,  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool  and  green ;    and  shade  the  violets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 


30  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


A  filbert-hedge  with  wildbriar  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones;    there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots : 
Eound  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters, 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  blue-bells  ;    it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scatter'd  thoughtlessly 

By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

***** 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 


That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings : 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-doves'  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend ! 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  31 

To  the  o'erhanging  sallows :    blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequer 'd  shadows  pass. 

Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live: 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favours, 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviours. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low-hung  branches :    little  space  they  stop ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden  wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That  nought  less  sweet  might  call  my  thoughts  away 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 

O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward  look ; 

O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist, 

Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list; 


32 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 

Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburne. 

What  next?     A  tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers ;    or  by  the  flitting 

Of  divers  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

J.  Keats. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 

STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch 
Was  glorious  with  the  sun's  returning  march, 
And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 
The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me  ; — bathed  in  light, 
They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height, 
And,  in  their  fading  glory,  shone 
Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 
As  many  a  pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 
Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered  lance, 
And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft, 
The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river's  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest's  shade, 
Or  glistened  in  the  wide  cascade ; 
Where,  upward  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day, 
The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  33 


I  heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 
1  saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, 
And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake's  silver  beach, 
The  woods  were  bending  with  a  silent  reach. 
Then  o'er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell, 
The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills : 
And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout, 
That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle  broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows  that  thou  wouldst  forget, 
If  thou  wouldst  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills !     No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  nature  wears. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


A  SUMMER  MORN. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep 
Just  yield  a  scanty  sustenance  to  the  sheep, 
With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped, 
To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed ; 
To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  niorn, 
Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn, 
And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys, 
Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes: 
With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 
The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strew'd ; 

F 


34  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 

Kound  which  the  silvery  sunbeam  glancing  play'd, 

And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne, 

Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone; 

We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 

Reviving  Nature  hail'd  returning  day; 

Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping  heads, 

And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 

While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 

The  birds  sung  paeans  to  the  source  of  light: 

Oft  have  we  \vatch'd  the  speckled  lark  arise, 

Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies, 

And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pained  sight  no  more 

Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour; 

Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 

Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 

And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 

Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot, 

Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 

Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave, 

We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day, 

And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

H.  Kirke  White. 


SUMMEE  MOODS. 

I  LOVE  at  eventide  to  walk  alone, 

Down  narrow  lanes  o'erhung  with  dewy  thorn, 
Where  from  the  long  grass  underneath,  the  snail 

Je±  black  creeps  out  and  sprouts  his  timid  horn. 
I  love  to  muse  o'er  meadows  newly  mown, 

Where  withering  grass  perfumes  the  sultry  air; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


35 


Where  bees  search  round  with  sad  and  weary  drone, 

In  vain  for  flowers  that  bloomed  but  newly  there ; 
While  in  the  juicy  corn,  the  hidden  quail 

Cries  "  Wet  my  foot !"  and,  hid  as  thoughts  unborn, 
The  fairy-like  and  seldom  seen  land-rail 

Utters  "  Craik,  craik  !"  like  voices  underground  : 
Right  glad  to  meet  the  evening's  dewy  veil, 

And  see  the  light  fade  into  glooms  around. 

/.  Clare. 


THE  EVENING  STAK. 

STAB  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 


36  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

> 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
Their  remembrancer  in  heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

T.  Campbell. 


IF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  O  pensive  Eve !    to  soothe  thine  ear, 

Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales. 

O  nymph  reserved  !  while  now  the  bright-hair'd  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  thro'  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As  musing  slow,  I  hail, 

Thy  genial,  loved  return ! 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


37 


For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet  at  his  warning  lamp, 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day. 

And  many  a  nymph,  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dews,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures,  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 


Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin,  'midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 


38  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ! 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves, 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name ! 

W.  Collins. 


MILKEN  TIME.* 

'TwER  when  the  busy  birds  did  vlee, 
Wi'  sheenen  wings,  vrom  tree  to  tree, 
To  build  upon  the  mossy  lim', 
Their  hollow  nestes'  rounded  rim ; 
The  while  the  zun,  a-zinken  low, 
Did  roll  along  his  evenen  bow, 
I  come  along  where  wide-horn'd  cows, 
'Ithin  a  nook,  a  screen'd  by  boughs, 
Did  stan'  an'  flip  the  white-hoop'd  pails, 
Wi'  heairy  tufts  o'  swingen  tails; 
An'  there  wer  Jenny  Coom  a-gone 
Along  the  path  a  vew  steps  on, 
A-bearen  on  her  head,  up-straight, 
Her  pail,  wi'  slowly-riden  waight, 

*  This  poem  and  that  on  "  Hay  Miaken  "  are  taken,  by  permission,  from  Poems  in  the  Dorset- 
shire dialect.    By  the  Rev.  W.  Barnes,  3  vols.    J.  R.  Smith,  Soho  Square. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


39 


An'  hoops  a-sheenen,  lily-white, 
Agean  the  evenen's  slanten  light; 
An'  zo  I  took  her  pail,  an'  left 
Her  neck  a-freed  vrom  all  its  heft; 
An'  she  a-looken  up  an'  down, 
Wi'  sheaply  head  an'  glossy  crown, 
Then  took  my  zide,  an'  kept  my  peace 
A-talken  on  wi'  smilen  feace, 
An'  zetten  things  in  sich  a  light, 
I'd  fain  ha'  hear'd  her  talk  all  night: 

O  ' 

An'  when  I  brought  her  milk  avore 

The  geate,  she  took  it  in  to  door, 

An'  if  her  pail  had  but  allow'd 

Her  head  to  vail,  she  would  ha'  bow'd, 

An*  still,  as  'twer,  I  had  the  zight 

Ov  her  sweet  smile  droughout  the  night. 


W.  Barnes. 


EVENING. 

HEPHEBDS  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dewdrops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is; 
Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 
Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads. 
See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  Night  from  under  ground ; 
At  whose  rising  mists  unsound, 
Damps  and  vapours  fly  apace, 
Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 
Of  these  pastures,  where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 


40  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

Therefore,  from  such  danger,  lock 

Every  one  his  loved  flock; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 

From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away ; 

Or  the  crafty  thievish  fox 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourselves  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease; 

Let  one  eye  his  watches  keep, 

While  the  other  eye  doth  sleep  ; 

So  you  shall  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  for  ever  hold  the  love 

Of  our  great  God.     Sweetest  slumbers, 

And  soft  silence,  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  eyelids !     So,  farewell ! 

Thus  I  end  my  evening's  knell. 

J.  Fletcher. 


SUNSET. 

YET  the  rich  blessing  which  this  hour  bestows 

Let  us  not  mar  with  mournful  thoughts  like  these 

See  yonder  where  the  sun  of  evening  glows, 

How  gleam  the  green -girt  cottages! 

He  stoops,  he  sinks — and  overlived  is  day; 

But  he  hastes  on,  to  kindle  life  anew. 

Ah !  that  no  wing  lifts  me  from  earth  away 

Him  to  pursue,  and  evermore  pursue: 

Then  should  I  in  eternal  evening  light 

The  hushed  world  at  my  feet  behold, 

See  every  vale  in  calm,  and  flaming  every  height, 

And  silver  brooks  see  lost  in  floods  of  gold. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  41 


Then  would  not  the  wild  mountain  hinder  more 

My  course  divine  with  all  its  rugged  heads: 

Its  heated  bays  even  now  the  ocean  spreads 

My  wondering  eyes  before. 

Yet  the  god  seems  at  last  away  to  sink ; 

But  the  new  impulse  stirs  with  might : 

I  hasten  his  eternal  beams  to  drink, 

The  day  before  me,  and  behind  the  night, 

The  heaven  above  me  spread,  and  under  me  the  sea : 

Fair  dream !  which  while  I  dream  on,  he  is  gone. 

Ah!  that  an  actual  wing  may  not  so  soon 

Unto  our  spirit's  wing  united  be, 

And  yet  it  is  to  each  inbred. 

That  still  his  spirit  forward,  upward  springs, 

When  hidden  in  blue  spaces  overhead 

The  lark  his  shattering  carol  sings; 

When  over  pine-clad  mountains  soars 

The  eagle,  spread  upon  the  air, 

When  over  seas  and  over  moors 

The  crane  doth  to  its  home  repair. 

Archbishop  Trench. 
From  the  German  of  Goethe. 


TWILIGHT  CALM. 

O,  PLEASANT  eventide! 

Clouds  on  the  western  side 
Grow  grey  and  greyer  hiding  the  warm  sun : 
The  bees  and  birds,  their  happy  labours  done, 

Seek  their  close  nests  and  bide. 

Screened  in  the  leafy  wood 
The  stockdoves  sit  and  brood : 
The  very  squirrel  leaps  from  bough  to  bough 
But  lazily ;  pauses ;  and  settles  now 
Where  once  he  stored  his  food. 


42  WOODLAND  AND   WILD. 


One  by  one  the  flowers  close, 

Lily  and  dewy  rose 

Shutting  their  tender  petals  from  the  moon  : 
The  grasshoppers  are  still ;  but  not  so  soon 

Are  still  the  noisy  crows. 

The  dormouse  squats  and  eats 

Choice  little  dainty  bits 

Beneath  the  spreading  roots  of  a  broad  lime ; 
Nibbling  his  fill,  he  stops  from  time  to  time 

And  listens  where  he  sits. 

From  far  the  lowings  come 

Of  cattle  driven  home  : 
From  farther  still  the  wind  brings  fitfully 
The  vast  continual  murmur  of  the  sea, 

Now  loud,  now  almost  dumb. 

The  gnats  whirl  in  the  air, 

The  evening  gnats,  and  there 
The  owl  opes  broad  his  eyes  and  wings  to  sail 
For  prey ;  the  bat  wakes ;  and  the  shell-less  snail 

Comes  forth  clammy  and  bare. 

Hark  !  that's  the  nightingale, 

Telling  the  self-same  tale 

Her  song  told  when  this  ancient  earth  was  young; 
So  echoes  answered  when  her  song  was  sung 

In  the  first  wooded  vale. 

We  call  it  love  and  pain 

The  passion  of  her  strain ; 
And  yet  we  little  understand  or  know  : 
Why  should  it  not  be  rather  joy  that  so 

Throbs  in  each  throbbing  vein  ? 

In  separate  herds  the  deer 

Lie  ;  here  the  bucks,  and  here 
The  does,  and  by  its  mother  sleeps  the  fawn : 
Through  all  the  hours  of  night  until  the  dawn 

They  sleep,  forgetting  fear. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  43 


The  hare  sleeps  where  it  lies 

With  wary  half-closed  eyes ; 
The  cock  has  ceased  to  crow,  the  hen  to  cluck  : 
Only  the  fox  is  out,  some  heedless  duck 

Or  chicken  to  surprise. 


Remote,  each  single  star 

Comes  out,  till  there  they  are 
All  shining  brightly  :  how  the  dews  fall  damp ! 
While  close  at  hand  the  glowworm  lights  her  lamp 

Or  twinkles  from  afar. 

But  evening  now  is  done 

As  much  as  if  the  sun 
Day-giving  had  arisen  in  the  east : 
For  night  has  come,  and  the  great  calm  has  ceased, 

The  quiet  sands  have  run. 

Christina  Rossetti. 


A  SUMMER  EYE. 

DOWN  the  sultry  arc  of  day 
The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way, 
And  Eve  along  the  western  skies, 
Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes, 


44  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 

Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain, 

And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits; 

And  oft  with  his  accustom'd  call, 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone, 

And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 

While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall, 

Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 

Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 

He  has  penn'd  the  sheep-cote  fast, 

For  'twas  but  two  nights  before 

A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor : 

His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 

Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries  ; 

With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try, 

If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 

The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 

And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 

In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheel'd, 

And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field ; 

The  horses  are  all  bedded  up, 

And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup, 

The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 

The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 

And  Bess  has  slinked  away  to  talk 

With  Roger  in  the  holly-walk. 


Now  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess : 
And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings, 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, 
How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse  ; 


Darjou  pinx1 


Pirodon  lith 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  45 

How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrain'd  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Has  reel'd — then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid — while  master  goes  throughout, 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out, 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear, 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 

H.  Kirke  White. 


EVENING. 

FROM  yonder  wood  mark  blue-eyed  Eve  proceed: 
First  thro'  the  deep  and  warm  and  secret  glens, 
Through  the  pale  glimmering  privet-scented  lane, 
And  through  those  alders  by  the  river-side: 
Now  the  soft  dust  impedes  her,  which  the  sheep 
Have  hollow'd  out  beneath  their  hawthorn  shade. 
But  ah !    look  yonder !   see  a  misty  tide 
Kise  up  the  hill,  lay  low  the  frowning  grove, 
Enwrap  the  gay  white  mansion,  sap  its  sides 
Until  they  sink  and  melt  away  like  chalk; 
Now  it  comes  down  against  our  village-tower, 
Covers  its  base,  floats  o'er  its  arches,  tears 


46 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  clinging  ivy  from  the  battlements, 
Mingles  in  broad  embrace  the  obdurate  stone, 
(All  one  vast  ocean),  and  goes  swelling  on 
In  slow  and  silent,  dim  and  deepening  waves. 


W.  8.  Landor. 


THE  NIGHTS. 

H  the  summer  night 

Has  a  smile  of  light 
And  she  sits  on  a  sapphire  throne  ; 

Whilst  the  sweet  winds  load  her 

With  garlands  of  odour, 
From  the  bud  to  the  rose  o'er  blown ! 


But  the  autumn  night 
Has  a  piercing  sight,       • 
And  a  step  both  strong  and  free ; 
And  a  voice  for  wonder, 
Like  the  wrath  of  the  thunder, 
When  he  shouts  to  the  stormy  sea ! 

And  the  winter  night 

Is  all  cold  and  white, 
And  she  singeth  a  song  of  pain  ; 

Till  the  wild  bee  hummeth, 

And  warm  spring  cometh, 
When  she  dies  in  a  dream  of  rain ! 

0  tlie  night  brings  sleep 

To  the  green  woods  deep ; 
To  the  bird  of  the  woods  its  nest ; 

To  care  soft  hours ; 

To  life  new  powers; 
To  the  sick  and  the  wear)7 — Rest ! 


Barry  Cornwall. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  47 


THE  JACKDAW. 

THEEE  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 

Might  be  supposed  a  crow ; 
A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where,  bishop-like,  he  finds  a  perch, 

And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate, 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather, 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  raree-show 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 
Secure,  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No ;    not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

He  see,  that  this  great  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law, 
Its  customs  and  its  businesses 
Is  no"  concern  at  all  of  his, 

And  says — what  says  he  ? — Caw. 


48 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Thrice-happy  bird!     I  too  have  Been 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men  ; 

And  sick  of  having  seen  'em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 


W.  Cowper. 


THE  THRUSH. 

'LL  pay  my  rent  in  music,'  said  a  thrush, 
Who   took    his    lodging    'iieath  my  eaves   in 

spring, 
Where  the  thick  foliage   droop'd.     And   well 

he  kept 

His  simple  contract.     Not  for  quarter-day 
He  coldly  waited,  nor  a  draft  required 
To  stir  his  memory,  nor  my  patience  tried 
With  changeful  currencies,  but  every  morn 
Brought  me  good  notes  at  par,  and  broke  my 

sleep 
With  his  sweet-ringing  coin. 


Sometimes  a  song, 

All  wildly  trilling  through  his  dulcet  pipes, 
Falling,  and  caught  again,  and  still  prolong'd, — 
Betrayed  in  what  green  nook  the  warbler  sat, 
Each  feather  quivering  with  excess  of  joy, 
While  from  his  opening  beak  and  brightening  eye 
There  seein'd  to  breathe  a  cadence,  'This  is  meant 
For  your  especial  benefit.'     The  lay 
With  overruling  shrillness  more  than  once 
Did  summon  me  to  lay  my  book  aside 
And  wait  its  close ;  nor  was  that  pause  a  loss, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  49 

But  seemed  to  tune  and  shape  the  inward  ear 
To  wisdom's  key-tone. 

Then  I  had  a  share 

In  softer  songs,  that  cheer'd  his  brooding  mate, 
Who,  in  the  patience  of  good  hope,  did  keep 
Her  lengthen'd  vigil ;    and  the  voice  of  love 
That  flow'd  so  fondly  from  his  trusting  soul 
Made  glad  mine  own. 

Then,  too,  there  was  a  strain 
From  blended  throats,  that  to  their  callow  young 
Breathed  tenderness  untold  ;   and  the  weak  chirp 
Of  new-born  choristers,  so  deftly  train'd 
Each  in  the  sweet  way  that  he  ought  to  go, 
Mix'd  with  that  breath  of  household  charities 
Which  makes  the  spirit  strong. 

And  so  I  felt 

My  rent  was  fully  paid,  and  thought  myself 
Quite  fortunate,  in  these  our  times,  to  find 
Such  honest  tenant. 

But  when  autumn  bade 

The  northern  birds  to  spread  their  parting  wiug, 
And  that  small  house  was  vacant,  and  o'er  hedge 
And  russet  grove  and  forest  hoar  with  years 
The  hush  of  silence  settled,  I  grew  sad 
To  miss  my  kind  musicians,  and  was  fain 
To  patronize  with  a  more  fervent  zeal 
Such  fireside  music  as  makes  winter  short, 
And  storms  unheard. 

Yet  leave  within  our  hearts 
Dear  melodists,  the  spirit  of  your  praise,- 
Until  ye  come  again ;  and  the  brown  nest, 
That  now  its  downy  lining  to  the  winds 
H 


50 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Turns  desolate,  shall  thrill  at  your  return 
With  the  loud  welcome  home. 


For  He  who  touch'd 

Your  breasts  with  minstrelsy,  and  every  flower 
With  beauty,  hath  a  lesson  for  his  sous, 
In  all  the  varied  garniture  that  decks 
Life's  banquet-board ;  and  he's  the  wisest  guest 
Who  taketh  gladly  what  his  God  doth  send, 
Keeping  each  instrument  of  joy  in  tune 
That  helps  to  fit  him  for  the  choir  of  heaven. 

Mrs.  Sigourney. 


USH!  my  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for  ever ; 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder, 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 

0  beauteous  birds !  rnethinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune ! 

0  beauteous  birds!  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

8.  T.  Coleridge. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


51 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

ON  the  cross-beam  under  the  old  south  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  pass'd, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gain'd  at  last. 


Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 


Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well, 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon- 


52  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon — 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light — 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night  "- 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 

Whatever  and  all  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirr'd, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird  !   I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men , 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
Tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

N.  P.  Willis. 


THE  OWL. 

ALOFT  in  my  ancient,  sky-roofed  hall, 

In  my  old  gray  turret  high, 
Where  the  ivy  waves  o'er  the  crumbling  wall, 

A  king  !    a  king  reign  I ! 

Tu-whoo ! 
I  wake  the  woods  with  my  startling  call 

To  the  frighted  passer-by. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


53 


The  gadding  vines  in  the  chinks  that  grow 

Come  clambering  up  to  me ; 
And  the  newt,  the  bat,  and  the  toad,  I  trow, 

A  merry  band  are  we. 

Tu-whoo ! 
Oh  !   the  coffined  monks  in  their  cells  below, 

Have  no  goodlier  company. 


alft 


When  the  sweet  dew  sleeps  in  the  midnight  cool, 

To  some  tree-top  I  win ; 
While  the  toad  leaps  up  on  her  throne-like  stool, 

And  our  revels  loud  begin — 

Tu-whoo ! 
And  the  bull-frog  croaks  by  yon  stagnant  pool, 

Ere  he  sportive  plunges  in. 


54  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

And  the  blind  bat  wheels  through  the  cloister  shades, 

Where  none  unscared  may  pass; 
And  the  newt  glides  forth  through  the  long  arcades, 

Where  the  glowworm  lights  the  grass — 

Tu-whoo ! 
And  will-o'-the-wisp,  o'er  the  broad  green  glades, 

Flits  on  to  the  far  morass. 

And  thus  I  ween  all  the  livelong  night 

A  gladsome  life  lead  we ; 
While  the  stars  look  down  from  their  jewelled  height 

On  our  sports  approvingly. 

Tu-whoo ! 
They  may  bask  who  will  in  the  mid-day  light. 

But  the  midnight  gloom  for  me ! 

Mary  E.  Howitt. 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET. 

GREEN  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 
When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 
And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 
With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ; 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth  ! 

Both  have  your  sunshine ;    both,  though  small,  are  strong, 

At  your  clear  hearts,  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


55 


THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead: 

That  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one,  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

/.  Keats. 


THE  BEE. 

-o 

HOU  wert  out  betimes,  thou  busy,  busy  bee ! 

As  abroad  I  took  my  early  way, 
0  Before  the  cow  from  her  resting-place 

Had  risen  up  and  left  her  trace 
On  the  meadow,  with  dew  so  gray, 

Saw  I  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  bee. 


Thou  wert  working  late,  thou  busy,  busy  bee  I 

After  the  fall  of  the  cistus  flower, 
When  the  primrose-of-evening  was  ready  to  burst, 

I  heard  thee  last,  as  I  saw  thee  first; 
In  the  silence  of  the  evening  hour, 

Heard  I  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  bee. 


56  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

Thou  art  a  miser,  tliou  busy,  busy  bee! 

Late  and  early  at  employ ; 
Still  on  thy  golden  stores  intent, 

Thy  summer  in  heaping  and  hoarding  is  spent, 
What  thy  winter  will  never  enjoy ; 

Wise  lesson  this  for  me,  thou  busy,  busy  bee  ! 

Little  dost  thou  think,  thou  busy,  busy  bee  ! 

What  is  the  end  of  thy  toil. 
When  the  latest^flowers  of  the  ivy  are  gone, 

And  all  thy  work  for  the  year  is  done, 
Thy  master  comes  for  the  spoil. 

Woe  then  for  thee,  thou  busy,  busy  bee ! 

R.  Southey. 


BEES. 

THEREFORE  doth  Heaven  divide 
The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions, 
Setting  endeavour,  in  continual  motion  ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt, 
Obedience:  for  so  work  the  honey-bees; 
Creatures,  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom. 
They  have  a  king  and  officers  of  sorts: 
Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home ; 
Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad; 
Others,  like  soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings, 
Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds ; 
Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march  bring  home 
To  the  tent-royal  of  their  emperor: 
Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  surveys 
The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold ; 
The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  57 


The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 
Their  heavy  burthens  at  his  narrow  gate; 
The  sad-eyed  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 
Delivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 
The  lazy  yawning  drone. 

W.  Shakspere. 


THE  GLOWWORM. 

BENEATH  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream, 

A  worm  is  known  to  stray  ; 
That  shows  by  night  a  lucid  beam 

Which  disappears  by  day. 

Disputes  have  been,  and  still  prevail, 
From  whence  his  rays  proceed ; 

Some  give  that  honour  to  his  tail, 
And  others  to  his  head. 

But  this  is  sure — the  hand  of  night 

That  kindles  up  the  skies, 
Gives  him  a  modicum  of  light, 

Proportion'd  to  his  size. 

Perhaps  indulgent  Nature  meant, 

By  such  a  lamp  bestow'd, 
To  bid  the  traveller,  as  he  went, 

Be  careful  where  he  trod; 

Nor  crush  a  worm,  whose  useful  light 

Might  serve,  however  small, 
To  show  a  stumbling-stone  by  night, 

And  save  him  from  a  fall. 

Whate'er  she  meant,  this  truth  divine 

Is  legible  and  plain, 
'Tis  power  almighty  bids  him  shine, 

Nor  bids  him  shine  in  vain. 


58 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Ye  proud  and  wealthy,  let  this  theme 
Teach  humbler  thoughts  to  you, 

Since  such  a  reptile  has  its  gem, 
And  boasts  its  splendour  too. 


W.  Cowper. 


THE  HEDGE-ROWS. 

EHOLD — a  length  of  hundred  leagues  displayed- 
That  web  of  old  historic  tapestry 
With  its  green  patterns,  broidered  to  the  eye, 
Is  with  domestic  mysteries  inlaid! 
Here  hath  a  nameless  sire  in  some  past  age 
In  quaint  uneven  stripe  or  curious  nook, 
Clipped  by  the  wanderings  of  a  snaky  brook, 
Carved  for  a  younger  son  an  heritage. 
There  set  apart,  an  island  in  a  bower, 
With  right  of  road  among  the  oakwoods  round, 
Are  some  few  fields  within  a  ring-fence  bound, 
Perchance  a  daughter's  patrimonial  dower. 


So  may  we  dream,  while  to  our  fancy  come 

Kind  incidents  and  sweet  biographies, 

Scarce  fanciful,  as  flowing  from  the  ties 

And  blissful  bonds  which  consecrate  our  home 

To  be  an  earthly  heaven.     From  shore  to  shore 

That  ample,  wind-stirred  network  doth  ensnare 

Within  its  delicate  meshes  many  a  rare 

And  rustic  legend,  which  may  yield  good  store 

Of  touching  thought  unto  the  passenger: 

Domestic  changes,  families  decayed, 

And  love  or  hate,  in  testaments  displayed 

By  dying  men,  still  in  the  hedge-rows  stir. 


F.  W.  faber. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


59 


FIELD  FLOWERS. 

YE  field  flowers!    the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true, 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  I  doat  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old, 
When  the  earth  teem'd  around  me  with  fairy  delight, 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups  gladdened  my  sight, 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 


I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 

Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and  echoing  streams, 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  balm, 
While  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in  sunshine  remote, 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's  note 

Made  music  that  sweeten'd  the  calm. 


60  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 

Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little  wildings  of  June : 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell, 

Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  find, 
When  the  magic  of  Nature  first  breath'd  on  my  mind, 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Even  now  what  affections  the  violet  awakes; 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  lakes, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore; 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks, 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  brooks, 

In  the  vetches  that  tangled  their  shore! 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion  or  ague  of  fear 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  'bloom; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage, 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 

T.  Campbell. 


THE  DAISY. 

WITH  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Daisy!    again  I  talk  to  thee, 

/      For  thou  art  worthy. 
Thou  unassuming  commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 
Which  Love  makes  for  thee! 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  61 


Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising: 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee  for  praise  or  blame, 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 

A  nun  demure  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  maiden  of  Love's  court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  cyclops,  with  one  eye 

Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 
The  shape  will  vanish — and  behold 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold, 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover! 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star ; 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest; — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee ! 


62 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Bright  Flower!    for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  creature  ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


THE 
DANDELION. 


EAE  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and  full  of  pride,  uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth, — thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer  blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  tliine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  63 


To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand  ; 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  on  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 

Not  in  mid  June  the  goldeu-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like,  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  conquered  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, — 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind, — of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap, — and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  did  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 


64  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubtiug  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 


J.  R.  Lowell. 


THE  SWEETBRIAR. 

WILD  rose,  sweetbriar,  eglantine, 
All  these  pretty  names  are  mine, 
And  scent  in  every  leaf  is  mine, 
And  a  leaf  for  all  is  mine, 
And  the  scent — oh,  that's  divine ! 
Happy-sweet  and  pungent-fine, 
Pure  as  dew,  and  pick'd  as  wine. 

As  the  rose  in  gardens  dress'd 
Is  the  lady  self-possess'd ; 
I'm  the  lass  in  simple  vest, 
The  country  lass  whose  blood's  the  best. 
Were  the  beams  that  thread  the  briar 
In  the  morn  with  golden  fire 
Scented,  too,  they'd  smell  like  me, 
All  Elysian  pungency. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


THE  GARDEN. 

DEAR  garden !    once  again  with  lingering  look 
Reverted,  half  remorseful,  let  me  dwell 
Upon  thee  as  thou  wert  in  that  old  time 
Of  happy  days  departed.     Thou  art  changed, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  65 


And  I  have  changed  thee — Was  it  wisely  done? 

Wisely  and  well,  they  say  who  look  thereon 

With  unimpassioned  eye — cool,  clear,  undimm'd 

By  moisture  such  as  memory  gathers  oft 

In  mine,  while  gazing  on  the  things  that  are 

Not  with  the  hallowed  past,  the  loved  the  lost 

Associated  as  those  I  now  retrace 

With  tender  sadness.     The  old  shrubbery  walk 

Straight  as  an  arrow,  was  less  graceful  far 

Than  this  fair  winding  among  flowers  and  turf, 

Till  with  an  artful  curve  it  sweeps  from  sight 

To  reappear  again,  just  seen  and  lost 

Among  the  hawthorns  in  the  little  dell. 

Less  lovely  the  old  walk,  but  there  I  ran 

Holding  my  mother's  hand,  a  happy  child ; 

There  were  her  steps  imprinted,  and  my  father's, 

And  those  of  many  a  loved  one,  now  laid  low 

In  his  last  resting  place.     No  flowers,  methinks, 

That  now  I  cultivate  are  half  so  sweet, 

So  bright,  so  beautiful  as  those  that  bloomed 

In  the  old  formal  borders.     These  clove  pinks 

Yield  not  such  fragrance  as  the  true  old  sort 

That  spiced  our  pot-pourrie  (my  mother's  pride) 

With  such  peculiar  richness;  and  this  rose, 

With  its  fine  foreign  name,  is  scentless,  pale, 

Compared  with  the  old  cabbage — those  that  blushed 

In  the  thick  hedge  of  spiky  lavender — 

Such  lavender  as  is  not  no\v-a-days; 

And  gilly-flowers  are  not  as  they  were  then 

Sure  to  "  come  double ;"  and  the  night  breeze  now 

Sighs  not  so  loaded  with  delicious  scents 

Of  lily  and  sevinger.     O,  my  heart ! 

Is  all  indeed  so  altered? — or  art  thou 

The  changeling,  sore  aweary  now  at  times 

Of  all  beneath  the  sun? 

Caroline  Southeij. 


66 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

INTO  the  sunshine,  full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing  from  morn  till  night ! 

Into  the  moonlight,  whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like  when  the  winds  blow  ! 

Into  the  starlight,  rushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight,  happy  by  day ! 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  G7 


Ever  in  motion,  blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward,  never  aweary ; — 

Glad  of  all  weathers,  still  seeming  best, 
Upward  or  downward,  motion  thy  rest ; — 

Full  of  a  nature  nothing  can  tame 
Changed  every  moment,  ever  the  same  ; 

Ceaseless  aspiring,  ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine  thy  element ; 

Glorious  fountain !    Let  my  heart  be 

Fresh,  changeful,  constant,  upward,  like  thee ! 

/.  R.  Lowell. 


THE  COTTAGE. 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  beehive's  hum  shall  soothe  rny  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 

Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 

And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 

And,  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 

S.  Rogers. 


68  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


HAY  MIAKEN. 

'Tis  merry  ov  a  zummer's  day, 
Wher  vo'ke  be  out  a-miaken  hay  ; 
Wher  men  an'  women  in  a  string 
Da  ted  ar  turn  the  grass,  an'  zing, 

Wi'  cheemen  vaices,  merry  zongs, 

A-tossen  o'  ther  slieenen  prongs 

Wi'  yarms  a-zvvangen  left  an'  right, 

In  colour'd  gowns  an'  shirt  sleeves  white  ; 

Ar,  wider  spread,  a-riaken  roun' 

The  ruosy  hedges  o'  the  groun' 

Wher  Sam  da  zee  the  speckled  sniake, 

An'  try  to  kill  en  wi'  his  riake  ; 

An'  Poll  da  jump  about  an'  squal, 

To  zee  the  twisten  slooworm  oral. 

'Tis  merry  wher  a  gay-tongued  lot 
Ov  hay-miakers  be  all  a-squot, 
On  lightly-russlen  hay  a-spread 
Below  an  elem's  lofty  head, 
To  rest  ther  weary  limbs  an'  munch 
Ther  bit  o'  dinner,  ar  ther  nunch ; 
Wher  teethy  riakes  da  lie  all  roun' 
By  picks  a-stuck  up  into  groun' : 
An'  wi'  ther  vittles  in  ther  laps, 
An'  in  ther  tinnen  cups  ther  draps 
0'  cider  sweet,  ar  frothy  yale, 
Ther  tongues  da  run  wi'  joke  an'  tiale. 

An'  when  the  zun,  so  low  an'  red, 
Da  sheen  above  the  leafy  head 
O'  scome  girt  tree,  a  rizen  high 
Avore  the  vi'ry  western  sky, 
'Tis  merry  wher  all  han's  da  goo 
Adirt  the  groun',  by  two  an'  two, 
A-riaken,  auver  humps  an'  hollers, 
The  russlen  grass  up  into  rollers. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


69 


An'  oone  da  row  it  in  in  line, 

An'  oone  da  cluose  it  up  benine ; 

An'  a'ter  they  the  little  buoys 

Da  stride  an'  fling  ther  yarms  all  woys, 

Wi'  busy  picks  an'  proud  young  looks 

A-miaken  up  ther  tiny  pooks. 

An'  zoo  'tis  merry  out  among 

The  vo'ke  in  hay-viel'  al  da-long. 

William  Barnes. 


A  GIPSY  ENCAMPMENT. 

SEE  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild : 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.     A  kettle,  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Keceives  the  morsel — flesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or  at  best  of  cock  purloined 
From  his  accustomed  perch.     Hard-faring  race ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 
Which,  kindled  witli  dry  leaves,  just  saves  unquench'd 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin, 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 
Strange !  that  a  creature,  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 
His  nature ;  and,  though  capable  of  arts 
By  which  the  world  might  profit,  and  himself, 
Self-banished  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to  honourable  toil ! 


70  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Yet  even  these,  though  feigning  sickness  oft 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 

And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 

Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note, 

When  safe  occasion  offers;  and  with  dance 

And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag, 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 

Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 

The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world ; 

And,  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wandering  much, 

Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  the  effects 

Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

W.  Coivper. 


ANGLING. 

FLOW,  river,  flow  ! 

Where  the  alders  grow; — 

Where  the  mosses  rest 

On  the  bank's  high  breast ; 

Flow  on,  and  make  sweet  music  ever, 

Thou  joyous  and  beloved  river. 

Such  peace  upon  the  landscape  broods, 

There  is  such  beauty  in  the  woods ; 

Such  notes  of  joy  come  from  the  copse, 

And  from  the  swinging  oak-tree  tops; 

There  are  such  sounds  of  life,  and  health,  and  pleasure 

Abroad  upon  the  breeze, 
And  on  the  river  rippling  at  sweet  leisure, 

Beneath  its  banks  of  fringing  trees, — 
That  to  my  mind  a  thought  of  death  or  pain 
Seems  a  discordant  note  in  heavenly  strain. 

Death  is  the  rule  of  life:    the  hawk  in  air 
Pursues  the  swallow  for  his  daily  fare ; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


71 


The  blackbird  and  the  linnet  rove 

On  a  death-errand  through  the  grove ; 

The  happy  slug  and  glowworm  pale, 

Must  die  to  feed  the  nightingale; 

The  mighty  lion  hunts  his  destined  prey ; 

And  the  small  insect,  fluttering  on  our  way, 


Devours  the  tinier  tribes  that  live  unseen 
In  shady  nooks  and  populous  forests  green ; 
The  hungry  fish,  in  seas  and  rivers, 
Are  death-receivers  and  death-givers ; 
And  animalculee  conceal'd  from  sight, 
In  littleness  sublime  and  infinite, 
That  whirl  in  drops  of  water  from  the  fen — 
Creatures  as  quarrelsome  as  men — 
Or  float  in  air  upon  invisible  wings, 
Devour  the  countless  hosts  of  smaller  things. 
But  simple  is  the  law  which  they  obey — 
They  never  torture  when  they  slay, 
Unconquerable  need,  the  law  of  life, 
Impels  the  fiercest  to  the  fatal  strife : 
They  feel  no  joy  in  stopping  meaner  breath, 
Tia  man  alone  that  makes  a  sport  of  death. 

So,  gentle  river,  flow, 

Where  the  green  alders  grow, 


72  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Where  the  pine-tree  rears  its  crest, 

And  the  stock-dove  builds  her  nest, 

Where  the  wild-flower  odours  float, 

A.nd  the  lark  with  gushing  throat 

Pours  out  her  rapturous  strains 

To  all  hills  and  plains; 

And  if,  amid  the  stream, 

The  lurking  angler  dream, 

Of  hooking  fishes  with  his  treacherous  flies, 

Reflect,  oh  river,  the  unclouded  skies, 

And  bear  no  windy  ripple  on  thy  breast, — 

The  cloud  and  ripple  he  loves  best, — 

So  that  the  innocent  fish  may  see, 

And  shun  their  biped  enemy. 

Flow,  river,  flow, 

Where  the  violets  grow, 

Where  the  bank  is  steep, 

And  the  mosses  sleep, 

And  the  green  trees  nod  to  thy  waves  below : 

Flow  on  and  make  sweet  music  ever, 

Thou  joyous  and  beloved  river! 

G.  Maekay. 


THE  DESOLATE  VILLAGE. 

1  WALKED  by  niysel'  ower  the  sweet  braes  o'  Yarrow, 
When  the  earth  wi'  the  gowans  o'  July  was  drest ; 

But  the  sang  o'  the  bonny  burn  sounded  like  sorrow, 
Bound  ilka  house  cauld  as  a  last  simmer's  nest. 

I  look'd  through  the  lift  o'  the  blue  smiling  morning, 
But  never  ae  wee  cloud  o'  mist  could  I  see 

On  its  way  up  to  heaven,  the  cottage  adorning, 

Hanging  white  ower  the  green  o'  its  sheltering  tree. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  73 

By  the  outside  I  kenn'd  that  the  inner  was  forsaken, 
That  nae  tread  o'  footsteps  was  heard  on  the  floor; 

0  loud  craw'd  the  cock  whare  was  nane  to  awaken, 
And  the  wild  raven  croak'd  on  the  seat  by  the  door ! 

Sic  silence — sic  lonesomeness,  oh,  were  bewildering ! 
I  heard  nae  lass  singing  when  herding  her  sheep ; 

1  met  nae  bright  garlands  o'  wee  rosy  children 
Dancing  on  to  the  schoolhouse  just  waken'd  frae  sleep. 

I  pass'd  by  the  school-house — when  strangers  were  coming, 
Whase  windows  with  glad  faces  seem'd  all  alive; 

Ae  moment  I  hearken'd,  but  heard  nae  sweet  humming, 
For  a  night  o'  dark  vapour  can  silence  the  hive. 

I  pass'd  by  the  pool  where  the  lasses  at  daw'ing 

Used  to  bleach  their  white  garments  wi'  daffin  and  din  ; 

But  the  foam  in  the  silence  o'  nature  was  fa'ing, 

And  nae  laughing  rose  loud  through  the  roar  of  the  linn. 

I  gaed  into  a  small  town — when  sick  o'  my  roaming — 
Whare  ance  play'd  the  viol,  the  tabor,  and  flute; 

'Twas  the  hour  loved  by  labour,  the  saft  smiling  gloaming, 
Yet  the  green  round  the  Cross-stane  was  empty  and  mute. 

To  the  yellow-flower'd  meadow,  and  scant  rigs  o'  tillage, 

The  sheep  a'  neglected  had  come  frae  the  glen; 
The  cushat-dow  coo'd  in  the  midst  o'  the  village ; 

And  the  swallow  had  flown  to  the  dwellings  of  men  ! 

• 
Sweet  Denholm !    not  thus,  when  I  lived  in  thy  bosom, 

Thy  heart  lay  so  still  the  last  night  o'  the  week  ; 
Then  nane  was  sae  weary  that  love  would  nae  rouse  him, 

And  grief  gaed  to  dance  with  a  laugh  on  his  cheek. 

Sic  thoughts  wet  my  een — as  the  moonshine  was  beaming 
On  the  kirk-tower  that  rose  up  sae  silent  and  white; 

The  wan  ghastly  light  on  the  dial  was  streaming, 
But  the  still  finger  tauld  not  the  hour  of  the  night. 

L 


74  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  mirk-time  pass'd  slowly  in  siching  and  weeping, 

I  waken 'd,  and  nature  lay  silent  in  mirth; 
Ower  a'  holy  Scotland  the  Sabbath  was  sleeping, 

And  heaven  in  beauty  came  down  on  the  earth. 

The  morning  smiled  on  but  nae  kirk-bell  was  ringing, 
Nae  plaid  or  blue  bonnet  came  down  frae  the  hill; 

The  kirk-door  was  shut,  but  nae  psalm-tune  was  singing, 
And  I  miss'd  the  wee  voices  sae  sweet  and  sae  shrill. 

I  look'd  ower  the  quiet  o'  Death's  empty  dwelling, 
The  lav'rock  walk'd  mute  'mid  the  sorrowful  scene, 

And  fifty  brown  hillocks  wi'  fresh  mould  were  swelling 
Ower  the  kirk-yard  o'  Denholm,  last  summer  sae  green, 

The  infant  had  died  at  the  breast  o'  its  mither; 

The  cradle  stood  still  at  the  mitherless  bed ; 
At  play  the  bairn  sunk  in  the  hand  o'  its  brither ; 

At  the  fauld  on  the  mountain  the  shepherd  lay  dead. 

Oh !    in  spring-time  'tis  eerie,  when  winter  is  over, 
And  birds  should  be  glinting  ower  forest  and  lea, 

When  the  lintwhite  and  mavis  the  yellow  leaves  cover, 
And  nae  blackbird  sings  loud  frae  the  tap  o'  his  tree. 

But  eerier  far,  when  the  spring- land  rejoices, 

And  laughs  back  to  heaven  with  gratitude  bright ; 

To  hearken!   and  naewhere  hear  sweet  human  Voices, 
When  man's  soul  is  dark  in  the  season  o'  light ! 

J.  Wilson. 


SOLITUDE. 

O  VALE  of  visionary  rest! 

— Hush'd  as  the  grave  it  lies 

With  heaving  banks  of  tenderest  green, 

Yet  brightly,  happily  serene, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  75 

As  cloud-vale  of  the  sleepy  west 

Reposing  on  the  skies. 

Its  reigning  spirit  may  not  vary — 

What  change  can  seasons  bring 

Unto  so  sweet,  so  calm  a  spot, 

Where  every  loud  and  restless  thing 

Is  like  a  far-off  dream  forgot? 

Mild,  gentle,  mournful,  solitary, 

As  if  it  aye  were  spring, 

And  Nature  lov'd  to  witness  here, 

The  still  joys  of  the  infant  year, 

'Mid  flowers  and  music  wandering  glad, 

For  ever  happy,  yet  for  ever  sad. 

This  little  world  how  still  and  lone 
With  that  horizon  of  its  own ! 
And,  when  in  silence  falls  the  night, 
With  its  own  moon  how  purely  bright! 
No  shepherd's  cot  is  here — no  shealing 
Its  verdant  roof  through  trees  revealing — 
No  branchy  covert  like  a  nest, 
Where  the  weary  woodmen  rest, 
And  their  jocund  carols  sing 
O'er  the  fallen  forest-king. 

Inviolate  by  human  hand 
The  fragrant  white-stemm'd  birch-trees  stand,. 
With  many  a  green  and  sunny  glade 
'Mid  their  embowering  murmurs  made 
By  gradual  soft  decay- 
Where  stealing  to  that  little  lawn 
From  secret  haunt  and  half  afraid, 
The  doe,  in  mute  affection  gay, 
At  close  of  eve  leads  forth  her  fawn 
Amid  the  flowers  to  play. 
And  in  that  dell's  soft  bosom,  lo! 
Where  smileth  up  a  cheerful  glow 
Of  water  pure  as  air, 


7(3 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


A  tarn  by  two  small  streamlets  spread 
In  beauty  o'er  its  waveless  bed, 
Keflecting  in  that  heaven  so  still, 
The  birch-grove  mid- way  up  the  hill, 
And  summits  green  and  bare. 

How  lone!   beneath  its  veil  of  dew 

That  morning's  rosy  fingers  drew, 

Seldom  shepherd's  foot  hath  prest 

One  primrose  in  its  sunny  rest. 

The  sheep  at  distance  from  the  spring 

May  here  her  lambkins  chance  to  bring, 

Sporting  with  their  shadows  airy, 

Each  like  tiny  water  fairy 

Imaged  in  the  lucid  lake! 

The  hive-bee  here  doth  sometimes  make 

Music,  whose  sweet  niurmurings  tell 

Of  his  shelter'd  straw-roof  d  cell, 

Standing  'mid  some  garden  gay, 

Near  a  cottage  far  away. 

By  the  lake-side,  on  a  stone 

Stands  the  heron  all  alone, 

Still  as  any  lifeless  thing! 

Slowly  moves  his  laggard  wing, 

And  cloud-like  floating  with  the  gale 

Leaves  at  last  the  quiet  vale. 


Wilson. 


A  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 

THERE  is  a  stream  (I  name  not  its  name,  lest  inquisitive  tourist 
Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at  last  into  guide-books) 
Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplored  in  the  folds  of  great  mountains, 
Falling  two  miles  through  rowan  and  stunted  alder,  enveloped 
Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine,  where  broad  and  ample 
Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heathery  slopes  on  both  sides : 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  77 


Broad  and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional  falls  and  narrows ; 
But,  where  the  glen  of  its  course  approaches  the  vale  of  the  river, 
Met  and  blocked  by  a  huge  interposing  mass  of  granite, 
Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging  up,  and  raging  onward, 
Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  narrow  a  lady  would  step  it. 
There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a  wooden  bridge  goes, 
Carrying  a  path  to  the  forest ;  below,  three  hundred  yards,  say, 
Lower  in  level  some  twenty-five  feet,  through  flats  of  shingle, 
Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in  the  open  valley. 
But  in  the  interval  here  the  boiling  pent-up  water 
Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a  basin, 
Ten  feet  wide  and  eighteen  long,  with  whiteness  and  fury 
Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure,  a  mirror; 
Beautiful  there  for  the  colour  derived  from  green  rocks  under; 
Beautiful,  most  of  all,  where  beads  of  foam  uprising 
Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  delicate  hue  of  the  stillness, 
Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sides,  with  rowan  and  pendant  birch  boughs, 
Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at  the  bridge  and  pathway, 
Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood  and  rocky  projection. 
You  are  shut  in,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  perfection  of  water, 
Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  the  goddess"  of  bathing. 

A.  H.  Clough. 


THE  WIND. 

THE  wind  went  forth  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Loud  and  free ; 

Foaming  waves  leapt  up  to  meet  it, 
Stately  pines  bowed  down  to  greet  it; 

While  the  wailing  sea 
And  the  forest's  murmured  sigh 

Joined  the  cry 
Of  the  wind  that  swept  o'er  land  and  sea. 


78  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

The  wind  that  blew  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
Cast  the  bark  upon  the  shore, 
Whence  it  sailed  the  night  before 

Full  of  hope  and  glee ; 
And  the  cry  of  pain  and  death 

Was  but  a  breath, 
Through  the  wind  that  roared  upon  the  sea. 

The  wind  was  whispering  on  the  lea 

Tenderly ; 

But  the  white  rose  felt  it  pass, 
And  the  fragile  stalks  of  grass 
Shook  with  fear  to  see 
All  her  trembling  petals  shed, 

As  it  fled 
So  gently  by, — the  wind  upon  the  lea. 

Blow,  thou  wind,  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
And  a  gentler  message  send, 
Where  frail  flowers  and  grasses  bend, 

On  the  sunny  lea ; 
For  thy  bidding  still  is  one, 

Be  it  done  . 

In  tenderness  or  wrath,  on  land  or  sea  ! 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 


A  SUMMER  STORM. 

UNTREMULOUS  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge, 

So  still  the  air,  that  I  can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


79 


Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while  increases, 

The  huddling  tramp  of  a  drove  of  sheep, 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 

In  dust  on  the  other  side;  life's  emblem  deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 


On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed  grasses 
Soak  up  the  sunshine;  sleeps  the  brimming  tide, 

Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 
Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 
Wavers*  the  long  green  sedge's  shade  from  side  to  side ; 

But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered  surge, 

Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened  spray  ; 

Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge, 
And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it  climbs  alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid, 


80  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 

Doubtful  and  slow, 
Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling, 

And  the  wind  breathes  low; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 
Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter, 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west; 
The  up-turned  leaves  first  whiten  and  flutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 

Struggles  the  gull,  and  floats  away ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap, — 

We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day  : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet, 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh, 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest  beat. 

Look !  look  !  that  livid  flash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder, 

Fell,  splintering  with  a  ruinous  crash, 
On  the  earth,  which  crouches  in  silence  under; 

And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  oif  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wood  again, 
And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile, 

That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 
Bursts  rattling  over  the  sun-parched  roof; 

Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing, 
through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing, 

The  blue  lightning  flashes 

The  rapid  hail  clashes, 
The  white  waves  are  tumbling 

And;  in  one  baffled  roar, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  81 


Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock- bristled  shore, 

The  thunder  is  rumbling 

And  crashing  and  crumbling, — 
Will  silence  return  never  more  ? 

Hush !  still  as  death, 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves, 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 

Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 

And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 
His  battle-song, — 
One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash, 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 

To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon ! 
No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 
Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air, 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  writhing  portent  of  his  form ; — 

The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea, 

Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 

J".  R.  Lowell. 

M 


82  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  BEING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder; 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits: 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that-  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  83 


As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam  proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


84 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


1  ain  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their  convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air. 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


o>, 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY. 


On  and 


HE  young  oak  casts  its  delicate  shadow 
Over  the  still  and  emerald  meadow; 
The  sheep  are  cropping  the  fresh  spring  grass, 
And  never  raise  their  heads  as  we  pass  ; 
The  cattle  are  taking  their  noon-day  rest, 
And  chewing  the  cud  with  a  lazy  zest, 
Or,  bathing  their  feet  in  the  reedy  pool, 
Switch  their  tails  in  the  shadows  cool; 
But  away,  away,  WQ  may  not  stay, 
Panting  and  puffing,  and  snorting  and  starting, 
And  shrieking  and  crying,  and  madly  flying, 
on,  there's  a   race  to   be   run  and   a   goal  to  be  won   ere 
the  set  of  the  sun. 


Two  white  clouds  are  poised  on  high, 
Sunning  their  wings  in  the  azure  sky; 
Two  white  swans  float  to  and  fro 
Languidly  in  the  stream  below, 
As  it  sleeps  beneath  a  beechwood  tall, 
Clouds,  and  swans,  and  trees,  and  all, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


85 


Image  themselves  in  the  quiet  stream, 
Passing  their  lives  in  a  sunny  dream ; 
But  away,  away,  we  may  not  stay, 
Panting  and  puffing,  and  snorting  and  starting, 
And  shrieking  and  crying,  and  madly  flying, 

On  and  on,  there's  a   race  to  be   run    and   a   goal  to    be  won    ere 
the  set  of  the  sun. 


Under  the  tall  cliffs,  green  and  deep, 
The  ocean  rests  in  its  mid-day  sleep; 
The  waves  are  heaving  lazily 

Where  the  purple  sea-weeds  float; 
Sunbeams  cross  on  the  distant  sea, 

Speck'd  by  the  sail  of  the  fisher's  boat  ; 
But  away,  away,  we  may  riot  stay, 
Panting  and  puffing,  and  snorting  and  starting, 
And  shrieking  and  crying,  and  madly  flying, 

On  and  on,  there's   a   race  to   be    run   and  a    goal  to  be  won    ere 
the  set  of  the  sun. 

Into  the  deep  dell's  still  retreat, 
Where  the  river  rushes  beneath  our  feet, 
Skirting  the  base  of  moorland  hills, 
By  the  side  of  rocky  rills, 


86  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

* 

Where  the  wild-bird  bathes  and  plumes  its  wing, 
Where  the  fields  are  fresh  with  the  breath  of  spring, 
Where  the  earth  is  hush'd  in  her  noon-day  prayer, 
No  place  so  secret  but  we  come  there. 
On  nature's  mid-day  sleep  we  break, 
And  are  miles  away  ere  her  echoes  wake; 
We  startle  the  wood-nymphs  in  their  play, 
And  ere  they  can  hide  are  away,  away ! 
Away,  away,  we  may  not  stay, 
Panting  and  puffing,  and  snorting  and  starting, 
And  shrieking  and  crying,  and  madly  flying, 

On  and  on,  there's   a   race  to   be  run  and  a   goal  to  be  won  ere 
the  set  of  the  sun. 

The  Author  of  " The  Three  Wakings" 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  SEA. 

IT  is  the  midnight  hour: — the  beauteous  sea, 

Calm  as  the  cloudless  heaven,  the  heaven  discloses, 

While  many  a  sparkling  star,  in  quiet  glee, 

Far  down  within  the  watery  sky  reposes. 

As  if  the  Ocean's  heart  were  stirr'd 

With  inward  life,  a  sound  is  heard, 

Like  that  of  dreamer  murmuring  in  his  sleep; 

'Tis  partly  the  billow,  and  partly  the  air 

That  lies  like  a  garment  floating  fair 

Above  the  happy  deep. 

The  sea,  I  ween,  cannot  be  fann'd 

By  evening  freshness  from  the  land, 

For  the  land  it  is  far  away  ; 

But  God  hath  will'd  that  the  sky-born  breeze 

In  the  centre  of  the  loneliest  seas 

Should  ever  sport  and  play. 

The  mighty  Moon  she  sits  above, 

Encircled  with  a  zone  of  love, 

A  zone  of  dim  and  tender  light, 

That  makes  her  wakeful  eye  more  bright ; 


o 
o 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  87 


She  seems  to  shine  with  a  sunny  ray, 
And  the  night  looks  like  a  mellow'd  day ! 
The  gracious  Mistress  of  the  Main 
Hath  now  an  undisturbed  reign, 
And  from  her  silent  throne  looks  down, 
As  upon  children  of  her  own, 
On  the  waves  that  lend  their  gentle  breast 
In  gladness  for  her  couch  of  rest ! 
My  spirit  sleeps  amid  the  calm 
The  sleep  of  a  new  delight ; 
And  hopes  that  she  ne'er  may  awake  again, 
But  for  ever  hang  o'er  the  lovely  main, 
And  adore  the  lovely  night. 
Scarce  conscious  of  an  earthly  frame, 
She  glides  away  like  a  lambent  flame, 
And  in  her  bliss  she  sings; 
Now  touching  softly  the  ocean's  breast, 
Now  mid  the  stars  she  lies  at  rest, 
As  if  she  sail'd  on  wings  ! 
Now  bold  as  the  brightest  star  that  glows 
More  brightly  since  at  first  it  rose, 
Looks  down  on  the  far-off  flood, 
And  there  all  breathless  and  alone, 
As  the  sky  where  she  soars  were  a  world  of  her  own, 
She  mocketh  that  gentle  mighty  one 
As  he  lies  in  his  quiet  mood. 
"Art  thou,"  she  breathes,  "the  tyrant  grim 
That  scoffs  at  human  prayers, 
Answering  with  prouder  roar  the  while, 
As  it  rises  from  some  lonely  isle 
Through  groans  raised  wild,  the  hopeless  hymn 
Of  shipwreck'd  mariners? 
Oh !    thou  art  harmless  as  a  child 
Weary  with  joy,  and  reconciled 
For  sleep  to  change  its  play  ; 
And  now  that  night  hath  stay'd  thy  race, 
Smiles  wander  o'er  thy  placid  face 
As  if  thy  dreams  were  gay."  J.  Wilson. 


88 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  SHORE. 

'UKN  to  the  watery  world! — but  who  to  thee 
(A  wonder  yet  unview'd)  shall  paint — the  Sea  ? 
Various  and  vast,  sublime  in  all  its  forms, 
When  lull'd  by  zephyrs,  or  when  roused  by  storms, 
Its  colours  changing,  when  from  clouds  and  sun 

Shades  after  shades  upon  the  surface  run : 

Embrown'd  and  horrid  now,  and  now  serene, 

In  limpid  blue,  and  evanescent  green; 

And  oft  the  foggy  banks  on  ocean  lie, 

Lift  the  fair  sail,  and  cheat  the  experienced  eye. 
Be  it  the  Summer-noon:  a  sandy  space 

The  ebbing  tide  has  left  upon  its  place ; 

Then  just  the  hot  and  stony  beach  above, 

Light  twinkling  streams  in  bright  confusion  move  ; 

(For  heated  thus,  the  warmer  air  ascends, 

And  with  the  cooler  in  its  fall  contends) — 

Then  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean  keeps 

An  equal  motion,  swelling  as  it  sleeps, 

Then  slowly  sinking;  curling  to  the  strand, 

Faint,  lazy  waves  o'ercreep  the  ridgy  sand, 

Or  tap  the  tarry  boat  with  gentle  blow, 

And  back  return  in  silence,  smooth  and  slow. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  89 


Ships  in  the  calm  seem  anchor'd;  for  they  glide 
On  the  still  sea,  urged  solely  by  the  tide ; 
Art  thou  not  present,  this  calm  scene  before, 
Where  all  beside  is  pebbly  length  of  shore, 
And  far  as  eye  can  reach,  it  can  discern  no  more  ? 

Yet  sometimes  comes  a  ruffling  cloud  to  make 
The  quiet  surface  of  the  ocean  shake ; 
As  an  awaken'd  giant  with  a  frown 
Might  show  his  wrath,  and  then  to  sleep  sink  down. 

View  now  the  Winter-storm !  above,  one  cloud, 
Black  and  unbroken,  all  the  skies  o'ershroud ; 
The  unwieldy  porpoise  through  the  day  before 
Had  roll'd  in  view  of  boding  men  on  shore ; 
And  sometimes  hid  and  sometimes  show'd  his  form, 
Dark  as  the  cloud,  and  furious  as  the  storm. 

All  where  the  eye  delights,  yet  dreads  to  roam, 
The  breaking  billows  cast  the  flying  foam 
Upon  the  billows  rising — all  the  deep 
Is  restless  change;  the  waves  so  swelled  and  steep, 
Breaking  and  sinking,  and  the  sunken  swells, 
Nor  one,  one  moment,  in  its  station  dwells : 
But  nearer  land,  you  may  the  billows  trace, 
As  if  contending  in  their  watery  chase  ; 
May  watch  the  mightiest  till  the  shoal  they  reach, 
Then  break  and  hurry  to  their  utmost  stretch: 
Curl'd  as  they  come,  they  strike  with  furious  force, 
And  then  renewing,  take  their  grating  course, 
Baking  the  rounded  flints,  which  ages  past 
Boll'd  by  their  rage,  and  shall  to  ages  last. 

Far  off  the  petrel  in  the  troubled  way 
Swims  with  her  brood,  or  flutters  in  the  spray  ; 
She  rises  often,  often  drops  again, 
And  sports  at  ease  on  the  tempestuous  main. 

High  o'er  the  restless  deep,  above  the  reach 
Of  gunner's  hope,  vast  nights  of  wild-ducks  stretch ; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance  on  either  side, 
In  a  broad  space  and  level  line  they  glide; 


90 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


All  in  their  wedge-like  figures  from  the  north, 
Day  after  day,  flight  after  flight,  go  forth. 

Inshore  their  passage  tribes  of  sea-gulls  urge ; 
And  drop  for  prey  within  the  sweeping  surge ; 
Oft  in  the  rough  opposing  blast  they  fly 
Far  back,  then  turn,  and  all  their  force  apply, 
While  to  the  storm  they  give  their  weak  complaining  cry ; 
Or  clap  the  sleek  white  pinion  to  the  breast 
And  in  the  restless  ocean  dip  for  rest. 

G.  Crab-be. 


A  SEA-SIDE  SONG. 

THE  day  is  down  into  his  bower: 
In  languid  lights  his  feet  he  steeps: 

The  flush'd  sky  darkens,  low  and  lower, 
And'  closes  on  the  glowing  deeps. 

In  creeping  curves  of  yellow  foam 
Up  shallow  sands  the  waters  slide : 

And  warmly  blow  what  whispers  roam 
From  isle  to  isle  the  lulled  tide : 

The  boats  are  drawn :  the  nets  drip  bright : 
Dark  casements  gleam :    old  songs  are  sung 

And  out  upon  the  verge  of  night 

Green  lights  from  lonely  rocks  are  hung. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  91 


O  winds  of  eve  that  somewhere  rove 

Where  darkest  sleeps  the  distant  sea, 
Seek  out  where  haply  dreams  my  love, 

And  whisper  all  her  dreams  to  me! 

Owen  Meredith. 


THE  GREENWOOD. 

'Tis  merry  in  greenwood, — thus  runs  the  old  lay,- 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  lively  May, 
When  the  wild  birds'  song  on  stem  and  spray 

Invites  to  forest  bower ; 
Then  rears  the  ash  his  airy  crest, 
Then  shines  the  birch  in  silver  vest, 
And  the  beech  in  glistening  leaves  is  drest, 
And  dark  between  shows  the  oak's  proud  breast, 

Like  a  chieftain's  frowning  tower; 
Though  a  thousand  branches  join  their  screen, 
Yet  the  broken  sunbeams  glance  between, 
And  tip  the  leaves  with  lighter  green, 

With  brighter  tints  the  flower : 
Dull  is  the  heart  that  loves  not  then 
The  deep  recess  of  the  wild-wood  glen, 
Where  roe  and  red-deer  find  sheltering  den, 

When  the  sun  is  in  his  power. 

Less  merry,  perchance,  is  the  fading  leaf 
That  follows  so  soon  on  the  gather'd  sheaf, 

When  the  greenwood  loses  the  name  ; 
Silent  is  then  the  forest  bound, 
Save  the  redbreast's  note,  and  the  rustling  sound 
Of  frost-nipt  leaves  that  are  dropping  round, 
Or  the  deep-mou th'd  cry  of  the  distant  hound 

That  opens  on  his  game : 
Yet  then,  too,  I  love  the  forest  wide, 
Whether  the  sun  in  splendour  ride, 


92 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


And  gild  its  many-colour'd  side  ; 

Or  whether  the  soft  and  silvery  haze, 

In  vapoury  folds,  o'er  the  landscape  strays, 

And  half  involves  the  woodland  maze ; 

Like  an  early  widow's  veil, 
Where  winipling  tissue  from  the  gaze 
The  form  half  hides,  and  half  betrays, 

Of  beauty  wan  and  pale. 

Sir  Walter  Scott, 


TO  AUTUMN. 

OEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves 

run ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;    to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


93 


Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  ; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ?     Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;    and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

John  Keats. 


94 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


AUTUMN. 

THOU  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 
Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain. 

Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging  eaves ; 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden  leaves. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  95 


NUTTING. 


-!T  seems  a  day 


(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out), 
One  of  those  heavenly  days  that  cannot  die ; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 
I  left  our  cottage-threshold,  sallying  forth 
With  a  huge  wallet  o'er  my  shoulders  slung, 
A  nutting-crook  in  hand ;  and  turned  my  steps 
Tow'rd  some  far-distant  wood,  a  figure  quaint, 
Trick'd  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off  weeds 

Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded, 

By  exhortation  of  niy  frugal  dame — 

Motley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 

At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles, — and,  in  truth, 

More  ragged  than  need  was!     O'er  pathless  rocks, 

Through  beds  of  matted  fern,  and  tangled  thickets, 

Forcing  my  way,  I  came  to  one  dear  nook 

Unvisited,  where  not  a  broken  bough 

Drooped  with  its  withered  leaves,  ungracious  sign 

Of  devastation  ;  but  the  hazels-  rose 

Tall  and  erect,  with  tempting  clusters  hung, 

A  virgin  scene!     A  little  while  I  stood, 

Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the  heart 

As  joy  delights  in;    and,  with  wise  restraint 

Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a  rival,  eyed 

The  banquet ; — or  beneath  the  trees  I  sate 

Among  the  flowers,  and  with  flowers  I  played ; 

A  temper  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 

And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 

With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  bower  beneath  whose  leaves 

The  violets  of  five  seasons  re-appear 

And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye ; 

Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 

For  ever;   and  I  saw  the  sparkling  foam, 

And — with  my  cheek  on  one  of  those  green  stones 


96  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


That,  fleeced  with  moss,  under  the  shady  trees, 

Lay  round  me,  scattered  like  a  flock  of  sheep — 

I  heard  the  murmur  and  the  murmuring  sound, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 

Tribute  to  ease ;    and,  of  its  joy  secure, 

The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones 

And  on  the  vacant  air.     Then  up  I  rose, 

And  dragged  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough  with  crash, 

And  merciless  ravage :    and  the  shady  nook 

Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower, 

Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 

Their  quiet  being :    and,  unless  I  now 

Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past, 

Ere  from  the  mutilated  bower  I  turned 

Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 

I  felt  a  sense  of  pain  when  I  beheld 

The  silent  trees,  and  saw  the  intruding  sky. 

Then,  dearest  maiden,  move  along  these  shades 

In  gentleness  of  heart;  with  gentle  hand 

Touch — for  there  is  a  spirit  in  the  woods. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


THE  FOREST. 

THE  scenes  are  desert  now  and  bare, 

Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 

When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 

And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 

Yon  thorn — perchance  whose  prickly  spears 

Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


97 


While  fell  around  his  green  compeers- 
Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 


Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now, 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough  ; 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made, 
How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak, 
How  clung  the  rowan  to  the  rock, 
And  through  the  foliage  showed  his  head, 
With  narrow  leaves,  and  berries  red ; 
What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung, 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung, 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook, 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook ! 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


"Here,  in  my  shade,"  methinks  he'd  say, 
"  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay : 
The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 
(The  neighbouring  dingle  bears  his  name,) 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl, 
And  stop  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 


The  mountain  boar,  on  battle  set, 

His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet ; 

While  doe  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 

Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green- wood. 

Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower, 

Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power  : 

A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round, 

With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound ; 

And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent, 

Guard  every  pass,  with  cross-bow  bent ; 

And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 

And  falconers  hold  the  ready  hawk ; 

And  foresters,  in  green-wood  trim, 

Lead  in  the  leash  the  gaze-hounds  grim, 

Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's  bay 

From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey, 

To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 

The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain, 

As  fast  the  gallant  greyhounds  strain; 

Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  99 


Answers  the  harquebuss  below ; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply, 
To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunter's  cry, 
The  bugles  ringing  lightsomely." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


y. 


COUNTEY  SPORTS. 

SEE  !  from  the  brake  the  whirring  pheasant  springs, 

And  mounts  exulting  on  triumphant  wings : 

Short  is  his  joy,  he  feels  the  fiery  wound, 

Flutters  in  blood,  and  panting  beats  the  ground. 

Ah!  what  avails  his  glossy,  varying  dyes, 

His  purple  crest,  and  scarlet-circled  eyes. 

The  vivid  green  his  shining  plumes  unfold, 

His  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames  with  gold? 

Nor  yet,  when  moist  Arcturus  clouds  the  sky, 
The  woods  and  fields  their  pleasing  toils  deny. 
To  plains  with  well-breath'd  beagles  we  repair, 
And  trace  the  mazes  of  the  circling  hare, 
(Beasts,  urged  by  us,  their  fellow-beasts  pursue, 
And  learn  of  man  each  other  to  undo) : 
With  slaughtering  guns  the  unwearied  fowler  roves, 
When  frosts  have  whiten'd  all  the  naked  groves; 
Where  doves  in  flocks  the  leafless  trees  o'ershade. 
And  lonely  woodcocks  haunt  the  watery  glade, 
He  lifts  the  tube,  and  levels  with  his  eye: 
Straight  a  short  thunder  breaks  the  frozen  sky : 


100 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Oft,  as  in  airy  rings  they  skim  the  heath, 
The  clamorous  lapwings  feel  the  leaden  death  ; 
Oft,  as  the  mounting  larks  their  notes  prepare, 
They  fail,  and  leave  their  little  lives  in  air. 


A.  Pope. 


SHOOTING. 

HERE  the  rude  clamour  of  the  sportsman's  joy, 
The  gun  fast  thundering,  and  the  winded  horn, 
Would  tempt  the  muse  to  sing  the  rural  game  : 
How,  in  his  mid-career,  the  spaniel,  struck 
Stiff  by  the  tainted  gale,  with  open  nose, 
Outstretch'd,  and  finely  sensible,  draws  full, 
Fearful,  and  cautious,  on  the  latent  prey  ; 
As  in  the  sun  the  circling  covey  bask 
Their  varied  plumes,  and  watchful  every  way, 
Through  the  rough  stubble  turn  the  secret  eye, 
Caught  in  the  meshy  snare,  in  vain  they  beat 
Their  idle  wings,  entangled  more  and  more ; 


: 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


101 


Nor  on  the  surges  of  the  boundless  air, 
Though  borne  triumphant,  are  they  safe ;  the  gun 
Glanced  just,  and  sudden,  from  the  fowler's  eye 
O'ertakes  their  sounding  pinions ;  and  again, 
Immediate,  brings  them  from  the  towering  wing, 
Dead  to  the  ground ;  or  drives  them  wide-dispersed, 
Wounded,  and  wheeling  various,  down  the  wind. 

J.  Thomson. 


HUNTING. 

POOR  is  the  triumph  o'er  the  timid  hare ! 
Scared  from  the  corn  and  now  to  some  lone  seat 
Retired :  the  rushy  fen ;  the  ragged  furze ; 
Stretch'd  o'er  the  stony  heath ;  the  stubble  chapp'd 
The  thistly  lawn ;  the  thick-entangled  broom  ; 
Of  the  same  friendly  hue,  the  wither'd  fern ; 
The  fallow  ground  laid  open  to  the  sun, 
Concoctive ;  and  the  nodding  sandy  bank, 
Hung  o'er  the  mazes  of  the  mountain  brook. 
Vain  is  her  best  precaution,  though  she  sits 
Conceal'd  with  folded  ears,  unsleeping  eyes, 
By  Nature  raised  to  take  the  horizon  in: 


102 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


And  head  couch'd  close  betwixt  her  hairy  feet, 
In  act  to  spring  away.     The  scented  dew 
Betrays  her  early  labyrinth;  and  deep, 
In  scatter'd  sullen  openings,  far  behind, 
With  every  breeze  she  hears  the  coming  storm. 


But  nearer  and  more  frequent,  as  it  loads 
The  sighing  gale,  she  springs  amazed,  and  all 
The  savage  soul  of  game  is  up  at  once: 
The  pack  full-opening,  various,  the  shrill  horn 
Resounded  from  the  hills ;  the  neighing  steed, 
Wild  for  the  chase :  and  the  loud  hunter's  shout ; 
O'er  a  weak,  harmless,  flying  creature,  all 
Mix'd  in  mad  tumult,  and  discordant  joy. 


J.  Thomson. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  103 


THE  EISING-  OF  THE  SUN. 

WAKE  !  wake !  wake  to  the  hunting  ! 
Wake  ye,  wake!  the  morning  is  nigh! 

Chilly  the  breezes  blow 

Up  from  the  sea  below, 
Chilly  the  twilight  creeps  over  the  sky! 
Mark  how  fast  the  stars  are  fading! 
Mark  how  wide  the  dawn  is  spreading ! 

Many  a  fallow  deer 

Feeds  in  the  forest  near; 
Now  is  no  time  on  the  heather  to  lie ! 


Rise,  rise  !  look  on  the  ocean ! 
Rise  ye,  rise,  and  look  on  the  sky  ! 
Softly  the  vapours  sweep 
Over  the  level  deep, 
Softly  the  mists  on  the  waterfall  lie  ! 
In  the  cloud  red  tints  are  glowing, 
On  the  hill  the  black  cock's  crowing; 
And  through  the  welkin  red, 
See  where  he  lifts  his  head, 
(Forth  to  the  hunting!)     The  sun's  riding  high! 

Reginald  Heber. 


104 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


FADING  FLOWERS. 

HE  purple  iris  hangs  his  head 
j      On  his  lean  stalk,  and  so  declines  ; 
The  spider  spills  his  silver  thread 

Between  the  bells  of  columbines : 
An  alter'd  light  in  flickering  eves 

Draws  dews  thro'  these  dim  eyes  of  ours 
Death  walks  in  yonder  waning  bowers, 
And  burns  the  blistering  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Blooms  overblow : 
Suns  sink  away : 
Sweet  things  decay. 

The  drunken  beetle,  roused  ere  night, 

Breaks  blundering  from  the  rotting  rose, 
Flits  thro'  blue  spidery  aconite, 

And  hums,  and  conies,  and  goes : 
His  thick,  bewilder'd  song  receives 
A  drowsy  sense  of  grief  like  ours: 
He  hums  and  hums  among  the  bowers, 
And  bangs  about  the  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day! 
Hearts  overflow : 
Joy  flits  away : 
Sweet  things  decay. 

Her  yellow  stars  the  jasmine  drops 
In  mildew'd  mosses  one  by  one: 
The  hollyhocks  fall  off  their  tops  : 

The  lotus-blooms  all  white  i'  the  sun : 
The  freckled  foxglove  faints  and  grieves ; 
The  smooth-paced  slumbrous  slug  devours 
The  glewy  globes  of  gorgeous  flowers, 
And  smears  the  glistering  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
Life  leaves  us  so : 
Love  dare  not  stay  : 
Sweet  things  decay. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD,  105 

From  brazen  sunflowers,  orb  and  fringe, 

The  burning  burnish  dulls  and  dies: 
•Sad  Autumn  sets  a  sullen  tinge 

Upon  the  scornful  peonies: 
The  dewy  frog  limps  out,  and  heaves 
A  speckled  lump  in  speckled  bowers: 
A  reeking  moisture  clings,  and  lowers 
The  lips  of  lapping  leaves. 

Ah,  well-a-day! 
Ere  the  cock  crow, 
Life's  charm'd  array 
Reels  all  away. 

Owen  Meredith. 

THE  LAST  LEAF. 

IN  spring  and  summer  winds  may  blow, 

And  rains  fall  after,  hard  and  fast ; 
The  tender  leaves,  if  beaten  low, 

Shine  but  the  more  for  shower  and  blast. 

But  when  their  fated  hour  arrives, 

When  reapers  long  have  left  the  field, 
When  maidens  rifle  turn'd-up  hives, 

And  their  last  juice  fresh  apples  yield, 

A  leaf  perhaps  may  still  remain 

Upon  some  solitary  tree, 
Spite  of  the  wind  and  of  the  rain: 

A  thing  you  heed  not  if  you  see. 

At  last  it  falls.     Who  cares  ?     Not  one : 

And  yet  no  power  on  earth  can  ever 
Replace  the  fallen  leaf  upon 

Its  spray,  so  easy  to  dissever. 

If  such  be  love  I  dare  not  say, 

Friendship  is  such,  too  well  I  know, 
I  have  enjoy 'd  my  summer  day ; 

'Tis  past;    my  leaf  now  lies  below.          W.  S.  Landor. 
p 


10G  WOODLAND  AND    WILD. 


WITHERED  LEAVES. 

DELICATE  leaves,  with  yout  shifting  colours, 

Crimson  and  golden,  or  russet  brown, 
Under  what  sunsets  of  calui  October, 

Out  of  what  groves  were  ye  shaken  down? 

When  the  sun,  dying  in  red  and  amber, 
Tinted  the  woods  with  the  hues  he  wore, 

As  the  stain'd  light  in  a  great  cathedral, 
Through  the  east  window,  falls  on  the  floor. 

In  your  high  homes  where  the  tall  shafts  quiver, 
And  the  green  boughs,  like  a  trellis,  cross, 

When  ye  grow  brighter,  and  change,  and  wither, 
Symbols  ye  are  of  our  gain  and  loss. 

Hopes  that  we  cherish'd,  and  grand  ideals, 
Dreams  that  to  colour  and  substance  grew, 

Ah !   they  were  lofty  and  green  and  golden, 
Now  they  lie  dead  on  our  hearts  like  you. 

Silent  as  snow  from  his  airy  chamber, 

Down  on  the  earth  drops  the  wither'd  leaf, 

Silently  back,  on  the  heart  of  the  dreamer, 
Noticed  of  none,  falls  the  secret  grieft" 

Yet  ye  deceive  us,  beautiful  prophets ; 

For  like  one  side  of  an  ocean  shell, 
Cast  by  the  tide  on  a  dripping  sand-beach, 

Only  a  half  of  the  truth  ye  tell. 

Much  of  decadence  and  death  ye  sing  us, 
Eightly  ye  tell  us  earth's  hopes  are  vain, 

But  of  the  life  out  of  death  no  whisper, 
Saying,  '  We  die,  but  we  live  again.' 

Bring  us  some  teacher,  0  leaves  autumnal- 
Some  voice  to  sing,  from  your  crimson  skies, 

Of  the  home  where  our  hope  is  immortal, 
Of  the  land  where  the  leaf  never  dies. 

C.  F.  Alexander. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


107 


THE  DOG'S  GRAVE. 

LIE  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 

Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth ! 

It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise, 

Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  stone  we  raise : 

More  thou  deserv'st;  but  this  man  gives  to  man, 

Brother  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 

Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 

Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year : 

This  oak  points  out  thy  grave  ;  the  silent  tree 

Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  of  thee. 

We  grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end  were  past 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived  till  everything  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away, 
And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day  ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knee?, — 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 


108  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath, 

And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death. 

It  came,  and  we  were  glad;  yet  tears  were  shed; 

Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou  wert  dead; 

Not  only  for  a  thousand  thoughts  that  were 

Old  household  thoughts,  in  which  thou  hadst  thy  share ; 

But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee, 

Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree! 

For  love,  that  comes  wherever  life  and  sense 

Are  given  by  God,  in  thee  was  most  intense ; 

A  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 

A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind 

Not  only  to  us  Men,  but  to  thy  Kind: 

Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 

A  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law : — 

Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame ; 

Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came, 

A-nd,  therefore,  shalt  thou  be  an  honoured  name! 

W.  Wordsworth. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  BIRDS. 


Autumn  scatters  his  departing  gleams, 
Warn'd  of  approaching  Winter,  gather'd  play 
The  swallow-people  ;   and  toss'd  wide  around, 
O'er  the  calm  sky,  in  convolution  swift, 
The  feather'd  eddy  floats  :   rejoicing  once, 
Ere  to  their  wintry  slumbers  they  retire  ; 
In  clusters  clung,  beneath  the  mouldering  bank, 
And  where,  unpierced  by  frost,  the  cavern  sweats. 
Or  rather  into  warmer  climes  conveyed, 
With  other  kindred  birds  of  season,  there 
They  twitter  cheerful,  till  the  vernal  months 
Invite  them  welcome  back  :    for,  thronging,  now 
Innumerous  wings  are  in  commotion  all. 

/.  Thomson. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  109 


THE  CHURCHYARD. 

OUR  ancient  church!  its  lonely  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire  ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  sentinel  and  nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share ; — 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air; — 
The  rattling  cord, — the  rolling  stone, — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone, 

Bung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 


110 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years ; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour! 

0.   Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  CHURCHYARD. 

E  walked  within  the  churchyard  bounds, 

My  little  boy  and  I— 
He  laughing,  running  happy  rounds, 

I  pacing  mournfully. 


"  Nay,  child !  it  is  not  well,"  I  said, 
"Among  the  graves  to  shout, 

To  laugh  and  play  amongst  the  dead, 
And  make  this  noisy  rout." 

A  moment  to  my  side  he  clung; 

Leaving  his  merry  play, 
A  moment  stilled  his  joyous  tongue, 

Almost  as  hushed  as  they; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  Ill 

Then,  quite  forgetting  the  command 

In  life's  exulting  burst 
Of  early  glee,  let  go  my  hand, 
Joyous  as  at  the  first. 

And  now  I  did  not  check  him  more, 

For,  taught  by  Nature's  face, 
I  had  grown  wiser  than  before, 

Even  in  that  moment's  space : 

She  spread  no  funeral  pall  above 

That  patch  of  churchyard  ground, 
But  the  same  azure  vault  of  love 

As  hung  o'er  all  around. 

And  white  clouds  o'er  that  spot  would  pass, 

As  freely  as  elsewhere ; 
The  sunshine  on  no  other  grass 

A  richer  hue  might  wear. 

And  formed  from  out  that  very  mould 

In  which  the  dead  did  lie, 
The  daisy  with  its  eye  of  gold 

Looked  up  into  the  sky. 

The  rook  was  wheeling  overhead, 

Nor  hastened  to  be  gone — 
The  small  bird  did  its  glad  notes  shed, 

Perched  on  a  gray  head-stone. 

And  God,  I  said,  would  never  give 

This  light  upon  the  earth, 
Nor  bid  in  childhood's  heart  to  live 

These  springs  of  gushing  mirth, 

If  our  one  wisdom  were  to  mourn, 

And  linger  with  the  dead,  , 

To  nurse,  as  wisest,  thoughts  forlorn 

Of  worm  and  earthy  bed. 

0  no!    the  glory  earth  puts  on, 

The  child's  unchecked  delight, 
.Both  witness  to  a  triumph  won — 

(If  we  but  read  aright). 


112  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 

A  triumph  won  o'er  sin  and  death, 

From  these  the  Saviour  saves ; 
And,  like  a  happy  infant,  Faith 

Can  play  among  the  graves. 

Archbishop  Trench. 

THE  CHURCH  DIAL. 

BENEATH  me  was  the  misty  sea, 

O'er  which  a  beetling  summit  hung, 

And,  half  way  up,  a  blasted  tree 
With  creaking  brandies  swung : 

The  yellow  crowsfoot  blossomed  there, 

And  juicy  samphire  to  the  bare 
And  lean  rock  clung. 

And  sweetly  to  the  very  edge 

The  soft  and  thymy  greensward  crept, 

And,  hanging  slightly  o'er  the  ledge, 
Perpetually  wept 

With  drippings  from  a  hidden  spring, 

Heard  only  when  the  murmuring 
Of  ocean  slept. 

There,  almost  stooping  o'er  the  wave, 

A  rustic  chapel  stood ;    below 
The  sea  had  hollowed  out  a  cave 

With  labour  long  and  slow ; 
And  it  was  plain  that  any  shock 
That  church  from  off  its  brow  of  rock 

Might  overthrow. 

And  many  a  simple  heart  would  grieve 

At  this  rude  sacrilege  of  time, 
Who  loved  for  prayer,  at  noon  or  eve. 

The  chalky  downs  to  climb, 
While  to  their  litanies  the  wave, 
With  its  eternal  thunder,  gave 

Tvesponse  sublime. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  113 


So  plaintively  the  soft  sea  wailed, 

So  blue  and  breezy  were  the  skies, 
So  tranquilly  the  white  ships  sailed 

In  pomp  before  my  eyes, 
The  very  sweetness  of  it  all 
Did  there  my  willing  spirit  call 

To  moralize. 

The  dial  on  the  chapel  side 

With  ivy  tendrils  was  entwined, 
As  though  the  flight  of  time  to  hide 

Were  office  true  and  kind ; 
While,  on  the  breath  of  ocean  borne, 
The  restless  shoots  in  playful  scorn 

Waved  unconfined. 

This  incident,  the  quiet  hour, 

The  sanctity  of  that  lone  place, 
Conspired  to  give  the  sight  a  power 

Of  true  pathetic  grace ; 
And,  as  I  gazed  on  it,  methought 
That  somewhat  of  a  sign  was  wrought 

For  me  to  trace. 

For  I  interpreted  the  gesture, 

To  illustrate  how  holy  faith 
Was  the  poor  soul's  unfading  vesture, 

The  saint's  immortal  wreath ; 
And,  with  significance  sublime, 
It  taught  how  faith  abolished  time 

By  killing  death. 

Mute  preacher !   pensive  evergreen  ! 

O  may  I  learn,  this  day,  from  thee, 
The  obscure  sage  of  this  lone  scene 

Hard  by  the  mighty  sea, 
How  faith  may,  through  Another's  merit, 
For  all  the  sons  of  time  inherit 

Eternity ! 

F.  W.  Faler. 


114  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  AUTUMN. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  ot  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove  the  withered  leaves  lie  dead, 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood  top  calls  the  crow,    through  all  the  gloomy  day. 


Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprung  and  stood, 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood? 
Alas!   they  all  are  in  their  graves — the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours : 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie — but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  windflower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  briar-rose  and  the  orchis  died,  amid  the  summer's  glow ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden  rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


115 


And  now  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day — as  still  such  days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home ; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  had  a  lot  so  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 


THE  CLIFF. 

S  slow  I  climb  the  cliff's  ascending  side, 
Much  musing  on  the  track  of  terror  past, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode  the  howling  blast, 
Pleased  I  look  back,  and  view  the  tranquil  tide 
That  laves  the  pebbled  shores ;   and  now  the  beam 
Of  evening  smiles  on  the  gray  battlement 
And  yon  forsaken  tower  that  time  has  rent : 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  silver  gleam 
Is  touched,  and  the  hushed  billows  seem  to  sleep. 
Soothed  by  the  scene  e'en  thus  on  sorrow's  breast 
A  kindred  stillness  steals,  and  bids  her  rest ; 
Whilst  sad  airs  stilly  sigh  along  the  deep, 
Like  melodies  that  mourn  upon  the  lyre, 
Waked  by  the  breeze,  and  as  they  mourn  expire. 

W.  L.  Bowles. 


110 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  SEA-GULLS. 

BY  the  grey  sand-hills,  o'er  the  cold  sea-shore ;  where,  dumbly  peering, 
Pass  the  pale-sail'd  ships,  scornfully,  silently;  wheeling,  and  veering 
Swift  out  of  sight  again ;  while  the  wind  searches  what  it  finds  never, 
O'er  the  sand-reaches,  bays,  billows,  blown  beaches, — homeless  for  ever! 
And,  in  a  vision  of  the  bare  heaven  seen  and  soon  lost  again, 
Over  the  rolling  foam,  out  in  the  mid-seas,  round  by  the  coast  again, 


Hovers  the  sea-gull,  poised  in  the  wind  above,  o'er  the  bleak  surges, 
In    the    green   briny    gleam,    briefly    reveal'd    and   gone ;    .  .  .  fleet, 


emerges 


Out  of  the  tumult  of  some  brain  where  memory  labours,  and  fretfully 
Moans  all  the  night  long — a  wild-winged  hope,  soon  fading  regretfully. 

Owen  Meredith. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  117 


THE  FIELD  MOUSE. 

WEE,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  needna  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  !  * 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  and  chase  thee 

Wi'  murd'ring  pattle!  t 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  t  but  thou  may  thieve ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave§ 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessing  wi'  the  lavej 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
It's  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
And  naething  now  to  big  IT  a  new  ane 

0'  foggage  green! 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  **  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
And  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
And  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

*  Hurrying  run.  t  Pattle  or  pettle,  the  plough-spade.  J  Sometimes. 

§  An  car  of  corn  in  a  thrave— that  is,  twenty-four  sheaves.  ||  Kemainder. 

t  Build.  **  Sharp. 


118  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But*  house  or  hauldf 
To  thole  t  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

And  cranreuch  §  cauld ; 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane  || 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,*fl~ 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear! 
And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  and  fear. 

R.  Burns. 


SNOW. 

SNOW,  snow,  beautiful  snow, 
Falling  so  widely  on  all  below: 

As  heavenly  gifts  do  ever — 
Filling  each  hollow  among  the  hills, 
Hiding  the  track  of  the  frozen  rills, 

Lost  in  the  gushing  river. 

Without.  f  Holding.  J  Endure.  §  Hoar-frost. 

||  Not  alone.  ^f  Wrong. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


119 


Snow,  snow,  beautiful  snow, 
Lying  so  lightly  on  all  below, 

Garden  and  field  spread  over, 
White  as  a  spotless  winding-sheet ; 
The  flowers  are  lifeless,  and  thus  'tis  meet 

The  face  of  the  dead  to  cover. 

Snow,  snow,  beautiful  snow, 
Melting  so  softly  from  all  below, 

Into  the  cold  earth  sinking: 
Soon  thy  last  traces  shall  disappear, 
And  spring,  with  carpet  of  flowers,  be  here, 

And  none  of  the  snow  be  thinking. 

Yet  greener  the  hollows  among  the  hills, 
And  fuller  the  flow  of  the  sparkling  rills, 

Since  the  snow  with  moisture  fed  them. 
Thus  when  our  lives  shall  melt  away, 
Fresh  and  bright  would  their  influence  stay, 

If  in  holy  deeds  we  shed  them. 


Isa  Craig. 


120  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


THE  MOON-RAINBOW. 

FOR  lo,  what  think  you  ?  suddenly 

The  rain  and  the  wind  ceased,  and  the  sky 

Received  at  once  the  full  fruition 

Of  the  moon's  consummate  apparition. 

The  black  cloud-barricade  was  riven, 

Ruined  beneath  her  feet,  and  driven 

Deep  in  the  west;  while,  bare  and  breathless, 

North  and  south  and  east  lay  ready 

For  a  glorious  thing,  that,  dauntless,  deathless, 

Sprang  across  them,  and  stood  steady. 

'Twas  a  moon-rainbow,  vast  and  perfect, 

From  heaven  to  heaven  extending,  perfect 

As  the  mother-moon's  self,  full  in  face. 

It  rose,  distinctly  at  the  base 

With  its  seven  proper  colours  chorded, 

Which  still,  in  the  rising,  were  compressed, 

Until  at  last,  they  coalesced. 

And  supreme  the  spectral  creature  lorded 

In  a  triumph  of  whitest  white, — 

Above  which  intervened  the  night. 

But  above  night  too,  like  only  the  next, 

The  second  of  a  wondrous  sequence, 

Reaching  in  rare  and  rarer  frequence, 

Till  the  heaven  of  heavens  were  circumflext, 

Another  rainbow  rose,  a  mightier, 

Fainter,  flushier,  and  flightier, — 

Rapture  dying  along  its  verge ! 

Oh,  whose  foot  shall  I  see  emerge, 

Whose,  from  the  straining  topmost  dark, 

On  to  the  keystone  of  that  arc? 

R.  Browning 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


121 


THE  RAVEN. 

NDERNEATH  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company, 
That  grunted  as  they  crunched  the  mast; 
For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 
Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high  : 
One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 
Next  came  a  raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly: 
He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  ! 
Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 
Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 
He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 
Where  then  did  the  raven  go? 
He  went  high  and  low, 

Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  raven  go. 
Many  autumns,  many  springs 
Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings : 
Many  summers,  many  winters — 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 
At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  she, 
And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree, 
They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 
And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 
But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise, 
His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 
He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke, 
But  with  many  a  hem !  and  a  sturdy  stroke, 
At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor  raven's  own  oak. 
His  young  ones  were  killed ;    for  they  could  not  depart, 
And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  boughs  from  the. trunk  the  woodman  did  sever; 
And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 
They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip, 
And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 


122  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


The  ship,  it  was  launched ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and-  the  waves  rushed  in  fast : 
Round  and  round  flew  the  raven,  and  cawed  to  the  blast. 
He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 
See  !    See !    o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls ! 

Eight  glad  was  the  raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding. home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet, 
And  he  thank'd  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat: 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  revenge  it  was  sweet. 

8.  T.  Coleridge. 


THE  FOUR  DOGS. 

ON  his  morning  rounds  the  Master 

Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare ; 

Searches  pasture  after  pasture, 

Sheep  and  cattle  eyes  with  care ; 

And,  for  silence  or  for  talk, 

He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk  ; 

Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed, 

Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for  speed. 

See  a  hare  before  him  started! 

Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase; 

Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 

All  the  four  are  in  the  race: 

And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue, 

Knows  from  instinct  what  to  do; 

Her  hope  is  near ;  no  turn  she  makes ; 

But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 

Deep  the  river  was,  and  crusted 
Thinly  by  a  one-night's  frost; 
But  the  nimble  Hare  hath  trusted 
To  the  ice,  and  safely  cross'd; 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  123 


She  hath  cross'd,  and  without  heed 

All  are  following  at  full  speed, 

When,  lo!  the  ice,  so  thinly  spread, 

Breaks — and  the  greyhound,  Dart,  is  overhead ! 

Better  fate  have  Prince  and  Swallow — 

See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport! 

Music  has  no  heart  to  follow, 

Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 

She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart, 

Hers  is  now  another  part : 

A  loving  creature  she,  and  brave  ! 

And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  friend  to  save. 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 

Very  hands  as  you  would  say ! 

And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches, 

As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 

For  herself  she  hath  no  fears, — 

Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears, — 

Makes  efforts  with  complainings ;  nor  gives  o'er 

Until  her  fellow  sinks  to  reappear  no  more. 

W.  Wordsworth. 


WATER-FOWL. 

MARK  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood, 
With  grace  of  motion  that  might  scarcely  seem 
Inferior  to  angelical,  prolong 
Their  curious  pastime !   shaping  in  mid  air 
(And  sometimes  with  ambitious  wing  that  soars 
High  as  the  level  of  the  mountain  tops) 
A  circuit  ampler  than  the  lake  beneath — 
Their  own  domain;    but  ever,  while  intent 
On  tracing  and  retracing  that  large  round, 
Their  jubilant  activity  evolves 


124 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Hundreds  of  curves  and  circlets,  to  and  fro, 
Upward  and  downward,  progress  intricate 
Yet  unperplexed,  as  if  one  spirit  swayed 
Their  indefatigable  flight.     'Tis  done — 
Ten  times,  or  more,  I  fancied  it  had  ceased ; 
But  lo !   the  vanished  company  again 
Ascending ;   they  approach — I  hear  their  wings, 


Faint,  faint  at  first ;    and  then  an  eager  sound, 

Pass'd  in  a  moment — and  as  faint  again! 

They  tempt  the  sun  to  sport  amid  their  plumes; 

They  tempt  the  water,  or  the  gleaming  ice, 

To  show  them  a  fair  image  ;    'tis  themselves, 

Their  own  fair  forms,  upon  the  glimmering  plain, 

Painted  more  soft  and  fair  as  they  descend 

Almost  to  touch ; — then  up  again  aloft, 

Up  with  a  sally  and  a  flash  of  speed, 

As  if  they  scorned  both  resting-place  and  rest! 

W.   Wordsworth. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  125 


THE  WILD  FOWL'S  VOICE. 

IT  chanced  upon  the  merry  merry  Christmas  eve, 

I  went  sighing  past  the  church  across  the  moorlands  dreary — 

O!  never  sin  and  want  and  woe  this  earth  will  leave, 

And  the  bells  but  mock  the  wailing  sound,  they  sing  so  cheery. 

How  long,  O  Lord !  how  long,  before  Thou  come  again  ? 

Still  in  cellar,  and  in  garret,  and  on  mountain  dreary, 
The  orphans  moan,  and  widows  weep,  and  poor  men  toil  in  vain. 

Till  earth  is  sick  of  hope  deferr'd,  though  Christmas  bells  be  cheery. 

Then  arose  a  joyous  clamour,  from  the  wild  fowl  on  the  mere, 
Beneath  the  stars,  across  the  snow,  like  clear  bells  ringing, 

And  a  voice  within  cried — "  Listen !   Christmas  carols  even  here, 

Though  thou  be  dumb,  yet  o'er  their  work,  the  stars  and   snows  are 
singing. 

Blind! — I  live,  I  love,  I  reign;   and  all  the  nations  through, 
With  the  thunder  of  My  judgments  even  now  are  ringing; 
Do  thou  fulfil  thy  work,  but  as  yon  wild  fowl  do, 

Thou    wilt   heed    no   less   the    wailing,    yet    hear   through   it    angels 
singing." 

C.  Kinqsley. 


THE  BIRDS  IN  WINTER. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighbouring  pale, 
Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 
Of  smiling  clay,  they  gossiped  side  by  side, 
Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 
The  feather'd  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing, 
And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 


126  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 

The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 

The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 

To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 

As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 

Kemains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resigned 

To  sad  necessity  the  cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut ;   and  wading  at  their  head 

With  well-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 

His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  entrenched. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 

Earth  yields  them  nought;  the  imprisoned  worm  is  safe 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod ;    all  seeds  of  herbs 

Lie  covered  close ;    and  berry-bearing  thorns 

That  feed  the  thrush  (whatever  some  suppose) 

Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

W.  Cowper. 

FKOST. 

AT  eve, 

Steam'd  eager  from  the  red  horizon  round, 
With  the  fierce  rage  of  winter  deep  suffused, 
An  icy  gale,  oft  shifting,  o'er  the  pool 
Breathes  a  blue  film,  and  in  its  mid  career 
Arrests  the  bickering  stream.     The  loosened  ice, 
Let  down  the  flood,  and  half  dissolved  by  day, 
Bustles  no  more ;    but  to  the  sedgy  bank 
Fast  grows,  or  gathers  round  the  pointed  stone, 
A  crystal  pavement,  by  the  breath  of  heaven 
Cemented  firm,  till,  seized  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  whole  imprison'd  river  growls  below. 
Loud  rings  the  frozen  earth,  and  hard  reflects 
A  double  noise;    while  at  his  evening  watch, 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


127 


The  village  dog  deters  the  nightly  thief; 

The  heifer  lows ;   the  distant  waterfall 

Swells  in  the  breeze ;  and,  with  the  hasty  tread 

Of  traveller,  the  hollow-sounding  plain 

Shakes  from  afar.     The  full  ethereal  round, 

Infinite  worlds  disclosing  to  the  view, 

Shines  out  intensely  keen;   and,  all  one  cope 

Of  starry  glitter,  glows  from  pole  to  pole. 

From  pole  to  pole  the  rigid  influence  falls, 

Thro'  the  still  night,  incessant,  heavy,  strong, 

And  seizes  nature  fast.     It  freezes  on; 

Till  morn,  late-rising  o'er  the  drooping  world, 

Lifts  her  pale  eye  unjoyous.     Then  appears 

The  various  labour  of  the  silent  night : 

Prone  from  the  dripping  eave,  and  dumb  cascade, 

Whose  idle  torrents  only  seem  to  roar, 

The  pendent  icicle ;    the  frost-work  fair, 

Where  transient  hues,  and  fancied  figures  rise; 

Wide-spouted  o'er  the  hill,  the  frozen  brook, 

A  livid  tract,  cold-gleaming  on  the  morn  ; 

The  forest  bent  beneath  the  plumy  wave; 


128  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


And  by  the  frost  refined  the  whiter  snow, 
Incrusted  hard,  and  sounding  to  the  tread 
Of  early  shepherd,  as  he  pensive  seeks 
His  pining  flock,  or  from  the  mountain  top, 
Pleased  with  the  slippery  surface,  swift  descends, 

/.  Thomson. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

WHEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill, 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas !   how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 


WOODLAND  AND  WILD.  129 


But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods !  within  your  crowd ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds !   my  ear 

Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 

I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  SEASONS.  * 

So  forth  issued  the  Seasons  of  the  year ; 
First,  lusty  Spring,  all  dight  in  leaves  and  flowers 
That  freshly  budded,  and  new  blossoms  did  bear, 
In  which  a  thousand  birds  had  built  their  bowers, 
That  sweetly  sung  to  call  forth  paramours; 
And  in  his  hand  a  javelin  he  did  bear, 
And  on  his  head  (as  fit  for  warlike  stours) 
A  gilt  engraven  morion  he  did  wear, 
That  as  some  did  him  love,  so  others  did  him  fear. 

Then  came  the  jolly  Summer,  being  dight 
In  a  thin  silken  cassock  coloured  green 
That  was  unlined  all,  to  be  more  light, 
And  on  his  head  a  garland  well  beseen 
He  wore,  from  which,  as  he  had  chafed  been, 
The  sweat  did  drop,  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 
A  bow  and  shaft,  as  he  in  forest  green 
Had  hunted  late  the  libbard  or  the  boar, 
And  now  would  bathe  his  limbs,  with  labour  heated  sore. 

s 


130  WOODLAND  AND  WILD. 


Then  came  the  Autumn,  all  in  yellow  clad, 
As  though  he  joyed  in  his  plenteous  store, 
Laden  with  fruits  that  made  him  laugh,  full  glad 
That  he  had  banished  Hunger,  which  tofore 
Had  by  the  belly  oft  him  pinched  sore; 
Upon  his  head  a  wreath,  that  was  enroled 
With  ears  of  corn  of  every  sort,  he  bore, 
And  in  his  hand  a  sickle  he  did  hold, 
To  reap  the  ripened  fruits  the  which  the  earth  had  yold. 

Lastly  came  Winter,  clothed  all  in  frieze, 
Chattering  his  teeth  for  cold  that  did  him  chill, 
Whilst  on  his  hoary  beard  his  breath  did  freeze, 
And  the  dull  drops  that  from  his  purpled  bill 
As  from  a  limbeck  did  adown  distil ; 
In  his  right  Land  a  tipped  staff  he  held, 
With  which  his  feeble  steps  he  stayed  still, 
For  he  was  faint  with  "cold  and  weak  with  eld 
That  scarce  his  loosed  limbs  he  able  was  to  weld. 

E.  Spenser. 


I  N  D  E  X. 


PAGE 

ALOFT  in  my  ancient,  sky-roofed  hall Mary  E.  Hewitt ...  52 

As  slow  I  climb  the  cliffs  ascending  side W.L.Bowles      .      .      .115 

At  eve J.  Thomson  ....  126 

Behold — a  length  of  hundred  leagues  displayed — F.  W.  Faber ....  58 

Beneath  me  was  the  misty  sea ....      .  F.  W.  Faber  >     .      .      .  112 

Beneath  the  hedge,  or  near  the  stream      ........  W.  Cowper    ....  57 

By  the  grey  sand-hills,  o'er  the  cold  sea-shore:  where,  dumbly  "I  Owen  M     d'th  116 

peering ....../ 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way  .      .      .      .     .  J.  E.  Lowell ....  62 

Dear  garden  !  once  again  with  lingering  look Caroline  Southey      .      .  64 

Delicate  leaves,  with  your  shifting  colours C.  F.  Alexander  .     .      .  106 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day .  H.  K irke  White  ...  43 

Early  in  spring-time,  on  raw  and  windy  mornings C.  Kingsley  ....  9 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see .      .      . R.  Herrick    ....  18 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree B.  Herrick    .           .      .  16 

Flow,  river,  flow C.  MacJcay    ....  70 

For  lo,  what  think  you  ?  suddenly E.Browning.     .      .      .  120 

From  yonder  wood  mark  blue-eyed  Eve  proceed W.  8.  Landor     ...  45 

Frost-locked  all  the  winter .      .      .      .      .  Christina  Rossetti    .      .  9 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass •   .  Leigh  Hunt  ....  54 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove J.  Logan 14 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit P.  B.  Shelley      ...  24 

Here  the  rude  clamour  of  the  sportman's  joy. J.Thomson  .      .      .      .100 

Hush  my  heedless  feet  from  under 8.  T.  Coleridge  ...  50 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers P.  B.  Shelley      ...  82 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song W.  Collins     ....  36 

'  I'll  pay  my  rent  in  music,'  said  a  thrush Mrs.  Sigourney  ...  48 

I  love  at  eventide  to  walk  alone J.  Clare 34 

In  spring  and  summer  winds  may  blow W.  S.  Landor      .      .      .  105 

Into  the  sunshine,  full  of  the  light J.  R.  Lowell ....  66 

I  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke W.  Cowper    ....  69 

I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill J.  Keats 29 

I  stood  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven's  wide  arch      .      .      .      .     .  H.  W.  Longfellow    .      .  32 

It  chanced  upon  the  merry  merry  Christmas  eve C.  Kingsley  .     .     .      .125 

It  is  the  midnight  hour : — the  beauteous  sea . J.Wilson      ....  86 

It  seems  a  day W.  Wordsworth  ...  95 

I  walked  by  mysel'  ower  the  sweet  braes  o'  Yarrow      ..../.  Wilson      ....  72 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud W.  Wordsworth  ...  17 

Lie  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth W.  Wordsioorth  .      .      .107 

Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood W.  Wordsworth  .      .     .  123 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill S.  Rogers      ....  67 

No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day    .      .      .      ...      .      .  S.  T.  Coleridge    .           .  19 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighbouring  pale W.  Cowper    ....  125 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost      .      .      .   •  .      .      T.  Carew 8 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger J.  Milton 18 

O  blithe  new  comer !  I  have  heard W.  Wordsworth.     .      .  13 

Oh  !  Sky-lark,  for  thy  wing Felicia  Hemans  .      .      .23 

Oh  the  summer  night Barry  Cornwall  ...  46 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  master           .    • W.  Wordsworth  .      .     .122 


1 32  INDEX. 


PAGE 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  old  south  bell N.  P.  Willis ....     51 

0,  pleasant  eventide Christina  Rossetti     .     .     41 

O  the  flower  of  the  tree  is  the  flower  for  me Aubrey  de  Vere  ...     27 

Our  ancient  church !  its  lonely  tower.      .     t           0.  Wendell  Holmes  .      .109 

O  vale  of  visionary  rest J.  Wilson      ....     74 

Poor  is  the  triumph  o'er  the  timid  hare J.  Thomson    ....  101 

Roses,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone J.  Fletcher    ....     22 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness John  Keats    .      .     .      .92 

See  !  from  the  brake  the  whirring  pheasant  springs      .      .      .      .     A  Pope 99 

See  where  surly  Winter  passes  off J.  Thomson  ....       1 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair J.  Fletcher     ....     39 

Snow,  snow,  beautiful  snow Isa  Craig      .      .     .     .118 

So  forth  issued  the  Seasons  of  the  year E.  Spenser     ....   129 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee T.  Campbell  ....     35 

Sweet  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours W.  Drummond  ...     15 

The  cock  is  crowing W.  Wordsworth  ...       7 

The  day  is  down  into  his  bower Owen  Meredith  ...     90 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year .      .      .      .  W.C.Bryant      .      .      .114 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead /.  Keats 55 

The  purple  iris  hangs  his  head .      .  Owen  Meredith  .      .     .   104 

Therefore  doth  Heaven  divide W.  Shakspere      ...     56 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat W.  Cowper    ....     47 

There  is  a  stream  (I  name  not  its  name,  lest  inquisitive  tourist     .  A.  H.  dough      ...     76 

The  scenes  are  desert  now  and  bare Sir  Walter  Scott       .      .     96 

The  snow  has  left  the  cottage  top J.  Clare  .     .                        2 

mu                           it,  i.  i    j       j  1 1  (Henry  Howard,  Earl  of 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings < 

I     Surrey 7 

The  wind  went  forth  o'er  land  and  sea Adelaide  A.  Procter .     .     77 

They  came  to  where  the  brushwood  ceased,  and  day     ....  Matthew  Arnold.      .     .     12 

The  young  oak  casts  its  delicate  shadow  .                                       .  i  The  Author  of  the  "  Three 

{     Wakings    ....     84 

Thou  comest,  autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain H.  W.  Longfellow    .     .     94 

Thou  wert  out  betimes,  thou  busy,  busy  bee E.  Southey    ....     55 

'Tis  merry  in  greenwood, — thus  runs  the  old  lay Sir  Walter  Scott ...     91 

'Tis  merry  ov  a  zummer's  day William  Barnes  ...     68 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep H.  KirJce  While ...      .33 

Turn  to  the  watery  world ! — but  who  to  thee G.  Crabbe      ....     88 

'  Twer  when  the  busy  birds  did  vlee W.  Barnes          .     :      .     38 

Underneath  an  old  oak  tree 8.  T.  Coleridge    .      .      .121 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear J.  R.  Lowell ....     78 

Wake  !  wake  !  wake  to  the  hunting Reginald  Heber  .      .      .   103 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie R.  Burns 117 

We  walked  within  the  Churchyard  bounds Archbishop  Trench   .      .110 

When  Autumn  scatters  his  departing  gleams J.  Thomson  ....   108 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill H.  W.  Longfellow    .      .128 

Wild  rose,  sweetbriar,  eglantine Leigh  Hunt  ....     64 

Winter  is  cold-hearted Christina  Rossetti    .      .     28 

Winter  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 0.  Wendett  Holmes  .      .     11 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see W.  Wordsworth  ...     60 

Ye  field  flowers !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true T.  Campbell  ....     59 

Yet  the  rich  blessing  which  this  hour  bestows Archbishop  Trench  .      .     40 


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